The genres are all over the map today -- Western, mystery, horror, and film noir. Each has a twist from the usual movies of their type, making them stand out either for the good or like a sore thumb.
Oh, you know where. Law and Order is a barely fictionalized version of the shootout at the O.K. Corral, with only the date and names changed. This doesn't negate the fact it's a topnotch Western -- high praise from a non-fan of the genre like me -- and, for my money, better than the more highly regarded My Darling Clementine, the 1946 version of the story directed by John Ford. It's about 30 minutes shorter, too, earning it an extra gold star.
All of the supporting actors, especially Harry Carey as Ed Brandt, evoke the Old West more realistically than other studio Westerns of the time. Their clothes are often covered in dirt and dust and grime; they use the same towel to wash their faces and clean their shoes; their eyes reflect the deaths they've witnessed and participated in. Further making it a must-see, Law and Order (written by Walter Huston's 26-year-old son John) was recently restored for a 4K Blu ray, making it look and sound as good as it did nearly a century ago. Maybe better. Like I said, I've never been into Westerns, but Law and Order is one I'll return to more than once in the future.
BONUS POINTS: The use of Universal's famous crane used in the 1929 musical Broadway, especially during the astonishing climactic shootout. And don't miss skinny Walter Brennan as the guy who sweeps out the local saloon. At age 38, he was toothless even then.
Good Lord, man, where has this delightful, fast-paced, 64-minute "mystery narrative" from the UK been hiding all my life? With a little tweaking, The Ghost Camera could pass for one of Alfred Hitchcock's early British talkies.
Finding a camera in the back seat of his car, John Gray develops the film hoping to identify the owner. Instead, one of the shots has captured a murder -- a photo which, along with the camera, quickly goes missing. John tracks down a woman in another photo, Mary Elton, whose brother Ernest vanished days earlier with the camera. As John and Mary follow the other photographic clues, they find the scene of the murder just as the police find Ernest. While the evidence is stacked against Ernest, John inadvertently saves the day when finding the real culprit.
If only all British "quota quickies" were as good as The Ghost Camera, starting with the twisty, occasionally risqué script by H. Fowler Mear (there's a British name for you!). I was and continue to be unfamiliar with Henry Kendall, who is memorable as John; he's like the prototype of the young Hugh Grant mixed with Edward Everett Horton. In one of her earliest roles, the nearly unrecognizable pre-Hollywood Ida Lupino is appealing as Mary, who seems to be hiding a very important secret. She's supposed to be 20-ish but, if Lupino's birthdate is correct, was actually 15! Well, people aged faster then, that's for sure.
CRY OF THE WEREWOLF (1944): Universal pretty much had the lycanthropy lore to
itself, first with Werewolf of London and, later, The Wolfman until Columbia got into the game with Cry of the Werewolf. Columbia made an unexpectedly nice switcheroo by casting a woman, Nina Foch, as the hellish human hound. And in a regrettable example of genetics, Foch's Celeste is a werewolf by birth, courtesy of her late mother. Celeste is determined to rip the throats out of anyone connected to a museum featuring proof of her heritage. Such a loyal child!
If you recognize Nina Foch, Barton MacLane (as the gruff police lieutenant) may ring a bell as well. If not, you won't recognize anybody in the cast, even if the romantic leads deserve a negative mention. Stephen Crane -- not the guy who wrote Red Bad of Courage -- has the presence of stale popcorn. His onscreen honey, Osa Massen, was probably Columbia's answer to Republic's Vera Hruba Ralston, right to the hard-to-pin-down accent and relentless state of confusion.
DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN (1959): Ahh, the comforting pre-credit
sequence of so many '50s noirs: Times Square at night seen through a car's rear window, with the familiar ADMIRAL TELEVISION APPLIANCES neon sign in the background, accompanied by a lonely trumpet wailing like a lost child. Then the title appears: DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN. Hey, what they hey? A credit reading SCENARIO ADAPTATION ET DIALOGUES? What gives?
Along with Lupino, there are a couple of other yet-to-be famous names found here. John Mills plays Ernest as the innocent guy who looks guilty, as when he makes his first entrance into the courtroom, twitching and stumbling like he's already being led to the gallows. The pitch perfect editing in that scene -- and throughout The Ghost Camera -- is the work of future director David Lean. Everyone in fact gives their all to what was intended as just another bottom-of-the-bill picture but today should be considered as an unjustifiably overlooked bit of British cinema.
BONUS POINTS: Upon entering the ruins of a 12th-century castle, a nervous Ida Lupino says the surroundings give her "a case of the jimjams", a phrase I hope to re-enter into everyday conversation.
itself, first with Werewolf of London and, later, The Wolfman until Columbia got into the game with Cry of the Werewolf. Columbia made an unexpectedly nice switcheroo by casting a woman, Nina Foch, as the hellish human hound. And in a regrettable example of genetics, Foch's Celeste is a werewolf by birth, courtesy of her late mother. Celeste is determined to rip the throats out of anyone connected to a museum featuring proof of her heritage. Such a loyal child!
Yet Cry of the Werewolf doesn't veer too far from what people were expecting. Celeste is the leader of an Eastern European gypsy "family" which apparently took a wrong turn outside Budapest and wound up in New Orleans. Further confusing things, two of the movie's characters are British, while nobody has a Louisiana accent. It's actually rather surprising that this mishmash doesn't include a Nazi professor trying to breed his own werewolves to unleash in America. Maybe Monogram already tried that gag.
Despite my japes, Cry of the Werewolf is ultimately a perfectly watchable B-movie war weary audiences were desperate for any kind of distraction for an hour. Save it for when all you can find on TV is junk -- in other words, any evening.
BONUS POINTS: Washing out of show business after only two more movies, Stephen Crane found his calling by creating the Kon Tiki restaurant chain. Another round of Zombies, Steve!
sequence of so many '50s noirs: Times Square at night seen through a car's rear window, with the familiar ADMIRAL TELEVISION APPLIANCES neon sign in the background, accompanied by a lonely trumpet wailing like a lost child. Then the title appears: DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN. Hey, what they hey? A credit reading SCENARIO ADAPTATION ET DIALOGUES? What gives?
Well, it was inevitable that the country that coined the phrase film noir would give it a go. And the set-up is actually a good one, updated for the geopolitical age. Moreau and Delmas, respectively a French reporter and photographer both stationed in New York, prowl the city one night investigating the disappearance of France's delegate to the United Nations. They track down the married man's known girlfriends but gain little useful information. The French friends are ready to give up until they learn of the attempted suicide of one of the delagte's sidepieces -- an event that takes their investigation to another, unexpected level. And, say, what's the deal with the car that's been tailing them all night?
All the elements are there for a classic noir. The problem with Deux Hommes dans Manhattan lies with writer/director Jean-Pierre Melville (who also plays Moreau). In his attempt to emulate an American movie genre, Melville exaggerates noir style to the point of laughability. Reporters wearing sunglasses in the office. Slutty women spouting "tough" dialogue that's actually inane. An obnoxious trumpet blast every time the mystery car behind them turns on its headlights. It's like a Cordon Bleu-trained chef using all his culinary knowledge to replicate your grandma's simple coffee cake by tripling the amount of ingredients and throwing in some others because they seem right.
Moreau and his costar Pierre Grasset do their best to emulate American anti-heroes, right down to the trench coat, fedora, and world-weary conversations. The French actresses are fine, but their American counterparts -- mon Dieu! Melville must have cast most of them for no other reason other than they worked cheap. It's always nice to see '50s New York in movies, but Deux Hommes dans Manhattan doesn't do it any favors.
BONUS POINTS: Several location shots are plugged both visually and through dialogue in what appears to be product placement. The Capitol Records recording studio on East 23rd, the Pike Slip Inn, the Oven and Grill Diner, the Ridgewood Rathskeller... all now vanished but preserved in the movie. Well, at least it was good for something.
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