Reviews

What a dreary, dreary moment in time that crept along like a slug half dead. Soap opera that had virtually no entertaining moment worth mentioning and certainly not worth remembering. I don't know the book but if this is the meat of the story, I'd rather go hungry. Interesting in that several actors played contrary to their usual characterizations: John Abbott, Reginald Owen, both ordinarily pleasantly balmy, now outrageously mean-spirited; Walter Pidgeon, upright and moral, as per usual; Deborah Kerr, 2nd Hollywood film, restrained in her perfect lady; Binnie Barnes, an amusingly awful "friend". (They should've used her better in movies, certainly capable.) And Angela Lansbury was just annoying in her kept under the wraps hysteria. She looked ready to explode and kill everyone long with herself. Janet Leigh, however, shone, including her well-done English accent. The kind of film that makes your skin crawl with everyone playing dullards mucking around in the soap. And the ending, the height of absurdity. 5 stars for the scenery, the only part that felt right. Or right-ish, anyway.

Can you imagine??? They are busy giving an AA or 2 to some of the dullest actors/actresses ever. Charlton Heston? George Chakiris (a nifty dancer,but...really!)? Ginger Rogers (Not at all dull, but she was a dancer! And great at it. A dramatic actress.? Yeah, sure.) Robinson, Myrna Loy, Edward Arnold. Joseph Cotten. Never a nomination. Can you imagine! That said - and I'll never get that off my chest - this film had Joan Bennett - the trampiest of them all - and Dan Duryea - the most vicious of them all - and Ed. G. doing their best ever. Not familiar with the original French film but this was so seedy in their characterizations, and left me feeling so sad for the poor sap, the the other film of it can't have been much better. (Margaret Lindsay, by the way, as Bennett's friend - never was as good as she was in this cameo. Hollywood never gave her the break she ought to have had.) Fritz Lang worked well these sorts of stories and could draw out of his performers places they mostly never traveled to. (Although these players excelled in general.) Great city shots and photography in general. The playing over and over of the broken record at the end was a touch of genius. "Paint me," Bennett says to Robinson as she offers her foot to be nail-polished. Between this, and Lang's "Woman in the Window," an hour and a half each, are little bits of heaven.

Each of these movies, an endless amount of them, all border on the ridiculous without a bit of sublime involved. Such an old couple with a tribe of young 'uns is a bit beyond the pale. The 2 of them are so amusing and good at what they do, it seems as if there was no acting required, just naturally inclined in that direction. Of course, they were acting and they did their jobs well. One wonders what they might have done without these caracitures they dwelled in. More palatable the movies might have been had there been some more sensible story line rather than these absurdities. For what's it worth, they were great comedians with lousy scripts.

That is the question! Seen for the first time ever, some 33 years (!) after it was written? Directed? And whatever else its made claim to? Seems to me to be entirely out of control. I don't know. John Waters is usually at least interesting in his display of absurd characters and messy story lines, but - but - what in the world does he do in this one but mix up a tossed salad which is top heavy with vinegar and corn syrup and battery acid with a dollop or 10 of rat poison. Johnny Depp, a baby then of 27, submitting his tender self to the wiles and charm or something or other of John Waters, the Svengali of unfunny. Or at least this loud, noisy mish mash of a petulant Depp and his sorority of weak sisters. Love, or at least like a lot of Waters' stuff, but this loud, eyesore is minus even a hint of redemption. Miss Divine. She was always redeeming.

The 3 Roberts' play well together. Ryan excels in psychopathic personalities; Mitchum in laconic, so laid-back roles, that he all but disappears into some sexy dream where you want to hang out with him all life long; and Young, so known for his Father Knows Best and Marcus Welby, MD, television series, that you forget he could be quite powerful in playing other characters on the screen: this film - if ever it was necessary, you would certainly want him to be on your side should you ever be in need of a detective: also, the disfigured war veteran in The Enchanted Cottage; a nazi in The Mortal Storm; a murderer in Hitchcock's The Secret Agent. Under-valued and under-estimated. Ryan's got to be the meanest player in moviedom. (In real life, very liberal.) And Gloria Grahame. What can you say about Grahame, except...she fascinates. The director, Edward Dymtryk, one of the Hollywood Ten in the House UnAmerican Committee, who later, after a few months in prison, informed on his old cronies, was a good noirist and we'll leave it at that. (Adrian Scott, producer, was also one of the Hollywood Ten.) L. Roy Hunt, photographer, shone. I believe the original novel (by Richard Brooks), had a gay man murdered. There's always a psychopath hanging around. Or, just your regular Joe who sees others only as THE OTHER. Yeah, right. Take a look in the mirror, brother.

I'm a sucker for film noir. That, and screwball comedy. This gorgeous black and white film noir has as its theme music, the famous Street Scene ,which weaves in and out of the movie. It has Lucille Ball, of whom James Agee, the great film critic of the 40's, said that "Lucille Ball was born for the parts that Ginger Rogers sweats over". I know just what he means: she is naturally effortless in both comedy and drama, whereas Rogers, after she gave up her wonderful dancing shoes, at which she excelled, and traded them in for her Kitty Foyle stuff (Academy Award!! What were they thinking?? Especially when Joan Fontaine was up for it, as well as Katherine Hepburn!). Mark Stevens as the shamus ought to have done much more work because what did do, he did well. William Bendix is always so good when he plays a goon. But Clifton Webb loved himself so much he couldn't stop playing Laura's Waldo Lydecker over and over and over again ad nauseaum. Never a variation. Annoying. Of course, the New York City background is a perfect place for a murder or 2. Not so sure about the 9 stars; 8 is probably more accurate. But in honor, of the dramatic talents (and gorgeousness) of Lucille Ball, and under-valued talents of Mark Stevens, and the Street Scene theme and the private eye concept as portrayed, and the unending pleasure of seeing it more than just a couple of times, I'm happy with 9.

Can't help lovin' dat man! Claude Rains, although a generally handsome older gent, never looked better in all his days. His voice, always a superlative vehicle with which he strolls through all his roles, was never put to better use. Preceding Roland Young as the comically put upon Topper in "Topper," who alone can see the ghosts of Cary Grant and Constance Bennett, and was nominated for an AA for doing so, Rains created this character out of mere unseen cloth and literally ran away with it, sight unseen. Rail-thin Una O'Connor, the grand mistress of the scream - Bride of Frankenstein, et al - let's us have it in delightful full blast; Henry Travers (Angel Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life, as the heroine's (Gloria Stuart) father and scientist friend of the IM, and Dudley Digges as the Inspector, all bring their particular (grand) talents to the movie. (Even Dwight Frye, Dracula's fly-eating Renfield, as a reporter, has his brief moment.) The IM's good intentions got carried away with themselves and he became a bona fide, certifiable nut. Not a horror film, really, but the beautiful photography and locale and the good acting, make it all a delight to witness and partake in. Especially on this lovely Halloween day in this year of 2023, while the rest of the "real" world steadily but surely falls apart at the seams.

Put two of the biggest hams in all of movidom in a movie worthy of many revisions, toss in a few loose hungry actors who don't know what to do but eat up any remaining slices of ham and chew the fat while they're at it. A tour de force for the redoubtable Moorehead and Price, who never met a movie he didn't want to eat up, sight unseen. But all seriousness aside, Moorehead is a delicious actress who you have to pull the reins on from time to time to keep her on track, so she is always interesting to see, mostly. Price made too many movies just for the hell of it and could not be reined in at any cost. It had an easy, unkempt appearance as if someone had a wager with someone else to determine who could write a worse screenplay and photograph it with a blind's eye to anything attractive. Actually, it was kind of cute, with all their unnecessary gesticulations and rantings and ravings. They looked as if they were all having a grand time and couldn't wait for the end of the day when they could all kick off their shoes, lay back and meet up with the Marx Bros. And tie one on.

And Sir Alfred, oh Sir Alfred. Why? Whatever on earth possessed you? I can't imagine. You still had a few good films ahead of you and many good ones - and several great ones - in the past. But this, well, I won't belabor the point. It was beneath you to even entertain the notion for starters, let alone continue on with a project so beneath you and your talent, it saddens me to even write these words. Your very first few films, black and white (always superior to your technicolor films, even the very good ones) and made in England, were less amateurish (yes, that's the word I dread to apply to you) as a beginner than this poor soul of a film is. It's like having a body without a frame. Regardless, uou remain one of my favorite film makers. Even this sadness won't intrude upon that.

Joseph Mankiewicz wrote and directed All About Eve. Joseph Mankiewicz wrote and directed A Letter to 3 Wives. No wrong at all done there. Nigh perfect, or as perfect as any film could get within and without those genres. (Both won best directing and best screenplays, 2 consecutive years.) This production of his was only half bad or maybe 3/4's bad. Dark and dreary and lacking in any vitality, any spirit, in any form, with a dull script and dull acting. Gene Tierney in Laura was perfect, and her work with Dana Andrews in a couple of other movies, and a few other films she fared well - none of which come to mind. (Never did see Leave Her to Heaven, her AA nominated role.) Her exotic beauty got her over the finish line, but she always maintained a rather remote personality, aloof whatever the part. She was never quite there. Just like Laura...but she's only a dream. Walter Huston and Anne Revere, he tyranical and she stolid and all knowing (as per usual) as her parents; Jessica Tandy as an outspoken helper to Tierney, particularly interesting in a part unusual for her; Spring Byington, a vaguely mad housekeeper, had some nice spooky moments; Glenn Langan, quite a looker and always amiable and earnest in the movies I've seen him in; and Vincent Price. What can one say about Vincent Price that speaks the truth? So often, most of the time, he's pretty much the same. He had 2 excellent roles, one at pretty much the beginning of his movie career and the other at its tail end. Laura, as Tierney's whiny paramour and in The Whales of August, with hammy old Bette Davis (subdued for her old age but still pitching pitchforks) and the more subtle Lillian Gish and perfectly cast; Ann Sothern, outshining everyone; and with Vincent Price in the most nuanced character he ever played. But in between, a lot of trashy horror stuff. (That was a bit of a digression, but you get the point. Not a fan, but not not a fan.) All in all, I wouldn't want to spend any more than 10 minutes in anyone's company. Except maybe another 10 minutes just simply looking at Gene Tierney and Glenn Langan, a couple of tasty delights.

Imagine Jack Benny! Imagine Ann Sheridan! Imagine Charles Coburn! Let alone Hattie McDaniel! All wonderful comedians/actors. Imagine all of them, plus...George S Kaufman and Moss Hart, 2 of the most important playwrights of the 30's and 40's. Pulitzer Prize people. Algonquin Hotel and The New Yorker magazine people. Imagine! All of them together along with all the kings horses and all the kings men and they couldn't pull this hostile "comedy" off, even if you paid them, and paid them well they did, no doubt. No laughs at you a mile a minute, but plenty of yawns and snores. The great wits! HA!! I saw this when I was a kid on black and white tv and it was funny then, but I was a kid with no sense of humor. In the original play on Broadway in the early 40's it was a big hit, as were all their plays. The roles were reversed: the wife didn't want to move to bucolic land and the husband did. Either way, an unhappy mess. Kaufman and Hart's dialogue has not aged at all well, Pulitzer Prize or not. Same for The Man Who Came to Dinner. Arch, dry, skunk material. All fingers down.

Started off - being generous - interestingly, even with Cornel Wilde's constant bellowing. (He plays a character who, after the first 45 minutes of bellow, tosses his life away - his work, his profession, his adoring kid brother, even his blind and loving mother - all for the love - read sex - of a somnambulistic blonde.) Kind of one-note in performances, for all the characters. (Although Ann Shoemaker as a psychiatrist brought a brief note of sharp-tongued reality to the story.) And the story was a mess. A mess of contradiction, confusion and absurdity. In fact, this was so bad, it leaves me wordless, empty-headed and ready to go to sleep and try to sleep it off, like a bad dream. I've already had my nightmare, thanks to this worsening by the minute movie. Summing it up, if you're subject to insomnia, watch this display of neurosis and cop-out endings. You'll sleep like a baby.

You wonder, sometimes, how an actor as good as William Powell, could possibly wind up in a piece of nonsense that is as funny as the bite of a scorpion (8 in the zodiac wheel of life) in heat would be. Someone with the star power of Powell you would think has enough clout to call the shots when it comes to making a movie, and if so, how is it he ever chose to make this one. Hedy Lamaar, as luscious a tomato if ever there was one, maintains her luminosity without inviting any real acting talent into her repertoire. Fay Bainter presents a different view of herself which is, uh, different. All in all, let this one drift off into the regions of the nether nether lands, the land below. (Maybe, just maybe, if an actress really worthy of playing opposite Powell, like Loy, or a zany Rosalind Russell, or Colbert or Arthur - ah, yes, Jean Arthur - someone with screwball capabilities, it might have been better served, and we along with it.)

A big hit on Broadway in the mid-50's - Pulitzer Prize - and I imagine it was big hit as a movie, given the casting of Holden and Novak. Holden was somewhat too old for the role, although his physical form was in fine shape. He was a good actor and was even better in this as a guy who cannot find what he wants to do in life. Kim Novak was luscious (although her hair coloring was not her hair coloring and a little strange looking when your used to her as blonde. She had, in all of her films, a sincerity, an honesty that she never betrayed. She's the girl he meets one day in a tiny town in Kansas, goes to a party picnic that very nite with the whole town celebration (labor Day), and the next day he has to hop on a freight train before he's arrested for stealing a car (which he had not done) but not before he has fallen in love with the beauteous Novak. She's struggling with her slow motion maturation and remains too attached to her mother (Betty Field, who never had enough to do in her movies) who only wishes for her to marry the richest boy in town, Cliff Robertson. Rather than go into the romantic story line, which is pretty basic and traditional re the struggle to grow up, I'll just refer to the characterizations. The standouts were the above 4 mentioned as well as Arthur O'Connell, in particular, nominated for AA in support, well deserved. He had the unfortunate role of the object of Rosalind Russell's obsessive old maid. Rosalind Russell. Rosalind Russell never met a ham bone she didn't like and she makes short shrift of it in 10 seconds flat and comes back for more. She has no understanding of the word or concept of subtlety. Her performance was cringe worthy. It spoiled the movie for me. Loved her in His Girl Friday, but the buck stops there. Verna Felton was beautifully touching as the neighbor. All in all, it was Holden's and Novak's picture and they made a dreamy, realistic couple trying to fine peace in their worlds.

Oh, brother. Gimme, a break! When Taylor is good, she's pretty good. But when she is bad, she is very, very bad. And in this she was that. She's like a big doll, all grown up, with a bosom big enough for two. Voluptuous, sensual, sensitive, sincere in general, but in this film she gets swallowed up in car chases and hysteria. Her little girl's voice is not commensurate with her stature, not unlike Lana Turner's voice. But whereas Taylor could act and was sincere in her attention, Turner seemed to be always looking in a mirror, fancying herself. In this picture, there's a lot over-reach, nothing subtle or real (Except for Dunnock and Field). Never read the book, nor shall I ever. I've read O'Hara and he's generally good, but, if this movie is anything like his novel, I'd rather eat a ham sandwich. And I don't eat meat. Oh, and by the way. Laurence Harvey is never not Laurence Harvey, all intensity, without much to show for it. If you like over-wrought soap operas with a lot of wind-bag speeches, this mish-mash will the brew for you.

What a sad state of affairs, no pun etc. Even tho' I was around at the time of its release, never saw it till today. It would have served me better had it escaped me till the end of time. Pathetically unfunny. Dumbfounded that so many of the reviewers on IMDB were giving this horrid movie 8 or 9 or 10 stars. We share not the same world. I am afraid for them. Gina is lovely, sweet, endearing. The 3 male leads had their own uniquely repulsive personalities on full display. Grant & Winters should have known better. What were they thinking? (3rd wife, unknown to me and in general, was just bad.) Pretty scenery. Period. Sad Sad Sad. How dare it call itself an entertainment. Makes one want to cry. It's bad enough the world is crumbling all around us. Cinema should bolster us, not contribute to its disintegration and demise.

What a disappointment! A lot of noise and incoherencies blasted all over the place. I guess this was a big hit in 1989 but it's bewildering that it was deemed so worthwhile. Dark in color and way too dark in tone. Michael Keaton, always pretty wonderful and fun and crazy spooky, is almost subtle in this one, almost dull. Kim Basinger is typically beautiful and somnambulistic. And Jack Nicholson. Ah, Jack Nicholson! Give the guy some scenery and he chews it right on down to the bone. The buildings, the Gotham skyline was wonderfully surrealistic. But...the always big but.... But, lighten up a bit, boys. After all is said and after all is done, it's only a comic book.

One person. Not the mob who ruled, incited by Claude Rains as the bombastic lawyer, who indifferently, save for his unquenchable desire for power, tricked his way through the trial. It was Lana's first film and she was pretty good, considering she never developed any further. Except for the end of her sentences, she had a good enough southern accent and didn't even use her baby voice. The subsidiary characters were played well - Gloria Dickson (killed in a fire in her home in the mid 1940's) was always easy to watch, playing the feisty blonde in most of her films; Allyn Joslyn, added grand flavor to any role he undertook; Otto Kruger, kindly or unkindly in his roles; Elisha Cook, Jr., devious and squirmy as ever. The only disappointment - STRONG disappointment - was, of all people, Claude Rains. I've never seen him do anything in which he didn't excel. His character was a creepy liar here, not unlike the ex-president of these United States (ha!), which in and of itself would have been fine, had he played it well. Overdone and overwrought, a ham sandwich without any bread and several side orders of all forms of pig. Great actor. But not in this film.

Give me a picture, circa 1946, with pretty boy Tyrone "Vapid" Power and expressionless Gene Tierney and drunken Anne Baxter and stiff John Payne and prissy Clifton Webb and dull Herbert Marshall as Somerset Maugham and Lucile Watson with an invisible lorgnette and the one saving grace, Elsa Lanchester, who has only a few minutes to shine in this beyond insipid version of Maugham's book. I read it when I was a teenager before my mind had a chance to think for itself. What a pretentious tub of lard. Made no sense in 1946 and has not improved with age. Did I say 4 stars? A moment of insane generosity.

And Joel McCrea to boot! Not to mention the great Robert Benchley, who contributed, along with James Hilton, to the script. The supporting cast are magnificent pros, to a one, save, of course, the obviously always bland Laraine Day. No matter what the actress did, she never did enough and she was always the same. No shining moments for her. Not that she didn't have many opportunities. But let her rest for now. The film itself is one of Hitchcock's best. More than just a few good scenes. Most of them filled with minutes of heart-pumping touches: the caught coat, the airplane, the crowd of black umbrellas in the pouring rain. I think he started going adrift when he changed to technicolor, although a few of them were of the same black and white caliber, but too many were not. They got slicker as he got older, more playful and giddy. This was a fast-paced movie from the start and never let up until The End stretched itself across the screen. Clever guy. But don't take my word for it. Watch Vertigo sometime and if you've seen it before, watch it 2 or 3 more times. Imagine! Such an acclaimed film!! But I think, if you scratch the glossy surface, and clean behind James Stewart's mean ears, you'll see before your very eyes, a very lousy film.

Yawn. Ho hum. Borrringg. You'd think with such a nice cast, it would have gotten off the ground rather then be just a lead balloon. Miss Sweetheart of 1955 through 1965. Breaks should be given to anyone who asks for one. Before she started whispering her words, she had a voice. As a singer and as an ingenue. A good singer. Then someone came along and directed her to speak and sing breathlessly and ACT. Gimme a break. She lost, for me, whatever interest she may have held. Combine that with her perennial 40-50 year old virgin absurdity, all stiffly rigid in her stance, her movement and whisper, someone over-starched in backbone, jaw, neck, head, shoulders, hips, etc. Had a very sad life from what I've read. Thief of a husband, only child dying before her, etc. Animal lover and protector. Makes me sad for my harsh review of her. The 4 sons were a mess and their parenting left everything to be desired. Patsy Kelly, Margaret Lindsay fun but all too briefly. Byington's last role in movies. I like seeing her in the few movies when she plays a harridan. Paige, also stiff-backed in a part that should have been more loosely limbed. Keeping with her characterization. Hadyn was as always, but less nasal. David Niven is good when he's good. And uninteresting when he's not. He was best in Separate Tables. The direction was not snappy which might have perked up things. The book was a best seller. Read Bosley Crowther's review in the NY Times, He hits the nail on the head. Etc.

This is a stiff from the git-go. When Emory Parnell, who wasn't half-bad, has 4th billing, you know where it's going to go. Downhill is the only direction. Sheldon Leonard is fairly much a somnambulist, making no effort to remain awake. Michael O'Shea never got off the ground in the movies and too bad about that; this role didn't help him. Ditto Nancy Coleman. The premise isn't worth going into. I've forgotten it already (sort of a weak sister's version of mob violence (the weakest mob I've ever portrayed) promoting a populist vision of how the country should be. (A distant relative of the current scene in this country.) All in all, nothing about it is very good but the worst piece of business is the horrible soundtrack. If I could have turned down the music, I would've. But then I'd have heard none of the dialogue. Not a bad idea a that. My 2 cents: it's worthless.

Almost borders on good. In fact, it goes into that territory intermittently, especially the first half when the understated, underused, talented Richard Basehart demonstrates quite well how an obsession can drive a guy to murder. (It doesn't help his case that the little woman who easily drives him there, is played by none other than the tramp of all time, a snarling, vicious-eyed and tongued Audrey Totter, who could hold a steady sneer and snarl like no body's business.) Both cops, Barry Sullivan (better than usual) and William Conrad are broader than they ought to have been, thereby becoming more unrealistic with each line of dialogue. They were playing both ends so tightly against the middle that they wound up with both ends loose. Lloyd Gough, a miserable bully, played the kind of guy anyone in his right mind would want to knock off, and feel no woe about it. Cyd Charrise wore no dancing shoes and played her part guilelessly, a little too much so. Somewhere down the line, after Basehart began to hold his murderous passion at bay, the film wandered away from what might have been a more exciting film. The detectives were absurd, the hero was idiotically obsessed, suffering the slings and arrows of Audrey Totter whose duplicity couldn't fool anyone except her husband. Audrey Totter should have been a bigger star, if, for nothing else - and there was much more - than her wonderful face. Tom D'Andrea is the nice guy soda jerk whose presence in any film was always a sweet touch. All in all, an almost good (but not bad) movie.

One of those Hollywood booboos - one of many - that passed their scrutinization with their typical blind eye. Both eyes, in fact., wide open but unseeing. What started off as mildly amusing, turned, post haste, into a mish-mash of morass. To begin with, Clark Gable and Rosalind Russell are jewel thieves, independent of one another in their thievery, outwitting one another in the heist of a priceless necklace owned by the grande dame, Jessie Ralph, who plays drunk well. No surprise here, they hook up by hook and crook, and continue thieving, often taking from regular old small business owners, which was not funny at all. Peter Lorre, somehow or other, shows up as another character of bad character, his specialty. No big surprise, duplicitous character, in this case, a cargo ship captain who is anxious to betray his new passengers and attain the stolen goods for a handsome reward. Eventually, and for the final too many minutes, Gable is suddenly in the military, receiving honors as a hero. Russell underplaying for a change, proves she did not have to indulge in ham when she wanted to. Gable, all smirk and grin and raised eyebrow and innuendo, is Gable. Better to get on a slow boat to China then join this crew of miscreants.

How bad is bad? Watch this film and, in between snoozes, you'll know very well how bad is bad. Made in 1959, fashioned after a Broadway hit, it was old stuff before it began. 1959, the bland Eisenhower years closing in on itself, totally unprepared for the roiling half century to come, has nothing good to offer. Including this dopey film. The cast, led by the ever jolly darling Doris Day, who can't help but ooze false notes even when she is not singing (I commit sacrilege now): her way of walking - rigid spine, quick, short staccato steps, never a relaxed movement - and talking - whispery, hushed words floating into thin air, holding no weight, nothing. An emptiness escorts her from movie to movie to movie. Rock Hudson and Clark Gable and Cary Grant, quite individual ordinarily, become one and the same. Richard Widmark, great villain, without a note of humor in him, in anything. Gig Young does have humor and he does what he could do with the standard next door neighbor. Bottom line: the whole story is unfunny, made unfunnier, by their unfunny - not even mildly amusing - characters in an unfunny Broadway hit lamely brought to the screen, a stage play staged on the back lot studio, without a hint of imagination. Even the shrubbery, like the actors, is made of wax. It probably made a million bucks. And then some.