Directors

Human Desire

/ Colin McGuigan / 39 Comments

Fate and free will, two philosophical concepts that go to the heart of the human condition and form the basis of a good deal of religious thinking and debate. They loom large in the world of film noir too, though that shouldn’t come as any great surprise since art and our perception of our place in the scheme of things are inseparably linked. Fritz Lang’s Human Desire (1954), made as he was approaching the end of his time in Hollywood, posits both fate and free will as drivers of his characters and invites viewers to make up their own minds on which exerts the more powerful influence. I’m of the opinion that Lang himself regards both of these concepts as being in play simultaneously and that there are certain points at which individuals have the opportunity to exercise their free will in order to determine which path of fate they will lock themselves into.

If one were to seek a visual metaphor for fate as a fixed and predetermined path, then a railway line is as good a one as any. Sleek and clean, indicative of precision and order, the lines forge the way ahead, carrying their passengers to a destination that lies at the end of the track as sure as a compass needle points to north. Yet the lines run in more than one direction and points do exist where it’s possible to shunt from one to the other. Human Desire opens with those railroad lines and the locomotives that carry all kinds of people to all kinds of places, starting and ending with absolute certainty at predefined locations that can no more be avoided or cheated than birth and death themselves. In between though, the choices are available, laid before the driver as he advances and by extension before those he brings along with him on the journey. Jeff Warren (Glenn Ford) is an engineer on the railroad, back home and back in his old job after serving in the Korean War. He is very much a regular guy doing a regular job, following those clearly defined lines in life in many ways. There’s nothing particularly special about him, he’s no medal adorned hero nor does he profess to have any ambitions beyond the desire for an uneventful life. However, a movie with this title must necessarily focus on desires affecting all kinds of people and even changing according to circumstances. Carl Buckley (Broderick Crawford) is an old acquaintance, a man who has risen to assistant yard master while Warren was off at war. He’s a blunt, brutish character, loud of mouth and quick of temper who manages to get himself fired for quarreling with his supervisor.

Desperate to get his job back – he’s only got a few more years to do before he qualifies for a pension after all – he badgers his wife into interceding on his behalf with a big city businessman who he figures has sufficient clout to see him reinstated. His wife Vicki (Gloria Grahame) is much younger and it’s immediately clear from her reaction that there is some history involving herself and the corporate bigwig that goes beyond the fact her mother was once his housekeeper. This is the catalyst for the snarl up in the lives of all concerned that follows. It’s made clear that Vicki gets Carl his job back by offering sexual favors. Even though he brought about this situation and essentially forced his wife into a compromising position, Carl is affronted, savagely beating her and making her an unwilling accessory to murder. A sordid business all round and one whose spreading ripples draw in Jeff Warren, who just happens to be riding the same train when the killing takes place and subsequently finds himself fatally attracted to Vicki.

Does one slaying inevitably lead to another? Do abusive, dehumanizing relationships become habit forming and addictive? Are the patterns woven by rotten choices and poor judgement indelible? Or can a virtual lever be pulled at the crucial point and send a life back onto a track that hauls it away from destruction? All of these questions are posed during the course of Human Desire and are answered at least in part by the close. While I’ve no wish to take any credit away from scriptwriter Alfred Hayes, adapting Jean Renoir’s own adaptation of an Émile Zola novel, it seems clear enough that these are themes Lang addressed on multiple occasions and thus carry the director’s imprint too.

Glenn Ford’s everyman qualities are to the fore in Human Desire. He plays Jeff Warren with a directness and simplicity that befits an uncomplicated working man who is unexpectedly snared in a web of temptation and desire. He is faced with the dilemma of succumbing to the vagaries of fate or using his free will to chart an alternative course. Ford’s ability to present frankness alongside a hint of personal dissatisfaction and discomfort works well under the circumstances. I see a touch of resentment early on in his realization that men like Buckley have prospered while he was doing his duty in Korea, it’s just barely there but I think it helps color some of his subsequent actions and decisions. In contrast, Gloria Grahame’s mistreated femme fatale is anything but straightforward, veering from victim to manipulator, cowering one moment and goading the next, and effortlessly alluring throughout. Her work alongside Ford here makes for an interesting companion piece to their previous collaboration with Lang in The Big Heat. Crawford too is neatly cast, by turns shambling and violent he’s a doomed figure haunted by his inadequacy and too ineffectual to challenge his own fate. On the other hand, Edgar Buchanan and Diane DeLaire as Ford’s landlord/colleague and his wife provide an alternative take on marriage. Their affectionate devotion in effect represents the other route available to Ford, in stark contrast to the dysfunctional dynamic of the Grahame-Crawford mismatch.

Human Desire ought to be easy enough to view these days. I have the UK Blu-ray from Eureka, a dual format release that looks terrific, and there is a Kino version available in the US as well. The main supplemental feature on the Eureka Blu-ray consists of an interview with Tony Rayns which fills in some background information on the making of the movie as well as comments on scriptwriter Hayes. I’m not sure the contributor fully gets the film though and he raises a number of points I found myself taking issue with, not least that tiresome critical gambit of looking at movies in terms of what they are not rather than what they are. Anyway, his is an interesting perspective, even if I don’t share all his conclusions. Personally, I’ve always been fond of Human Desire for its thoughtful exploration of themes and motifs that frequently grace Fritz Lang’s movies. Well worth checking out.

Cowboy

/ Colin McGuigan / 35 Comments

“You’re a dreaming idiot, and that’s the worst kind. You know what the trail is really like? Dust storms all day, cloudbursts all night. A man has got to be a fool to want that kind of life. And all that hogwash about horses! The loyalty of the horse! The intelligence of the horse! The intelligence? You know a horse has a brain just about the size of a walnut. They’re mean, they’re treacherous and they’re stupid. There isn’t a horse born that had enough sense to move away from a hot fire. No sensible man loves a horse. He tolerates the filthy animal only because riding is better than walking…. Pour me a little more whiskey there, will you?”

The myth, and how to deconstruct it. Those lines above, quoted by Glenn Ford’s world-weary trail boss as he lies in a hot bath he’s traveled the length of the country for, drinking whiskey from a china cup and shooting cockroaches off the wall, seem to rip the romantic facade away from the genre. We’re looking at a man who is bone tired, more than a little jaded and in no mood to indulge the highfalutin fantasies of Jack Lemmon’s lovesick hotel clerk. Delmer Daves’ Cowboy (1958) therefore creates the impression that the movie is going to dispense with legends and instead print some mean and ugly truths. In a way it does too, at least in the sense that the kind codology Ford holds forth against gets short shrift, and for long stretches it looks as though the whole thing is building towards a grim revision of the genre. Nevertheless, the deeper myth, that which informs and elevates the western movie is, unsurprisingly, what Daves was searching for and what he skillfully reaffirms by the end.

The structure is classically circular, starting and ending in what what is nominally the same place, creating the impression of a tale turning back on itself but finishing up on a very different level as far as the development of the characters is concerned. The story is seen through the eyes of Frank Harris (Jack Lemmon), an ambitious young man first encountered working in a hotel in Chicago. This is not where he intends to spend the rest of his life though and the fact he has fallen for a young Mexican woman and incurred the displeasure of her father is one of the factor’s influencing his plans. When the expansive and free spending Tom Reese (Glenn Ford) and his rambunctious cowhands book into the establishment, this sets Harris thinking and a run of rotten luck at the card table for the trail boss provides an opportunity worth seizing. In short, Harris makes Reese a loan of his savings to get him out of trouble in return for a partnership on the upcoming cattle drive, one which will conveniently take him all the way to Mexico. What follows is a classic trail story, one beset by difficulties posed not only by the hardships of the terrain and the hazards of the Comanche, but also by those stemming from the personalities and idiosyncrasies of one’s traveling companions. This site often looks at westerns underpinned by the theme of redemption but here it’s not so much that aspect that grounds the film as those near relatives: growth and renewal.

Cowboy is based on an autobiographical work by Frank Harris called My Reminiscences as a Cowboy. Born on the west coast of Ireland in Galway, Harris went on to lead what might reasonably be termed a colorful life, traveling throughout the United States and Europe and earning fame or notoriety (depending as ever on one’s point of view) in the process. He certainly wouldn’t be the first writer who is alleged to have added some embellishment to his experiences so it is hard to say how accurate the source of what is presented on screen is. That notwithstanding, Cowboy, with its script by Edmund H North and and an uncredited and still blacklisted Dalton Trumbo, tells a rattling good yarn with plenty of incident, all of which is predicated on a solid core message.

Every time I come back to a movie directed by Delmer Daves I’m once again struck by his focus on the better aspects of human nature. I see this as the defining characteristic of his work, that simple faith in humanity and its capacity for rising above the petty and the ignoble, and that perspective forms a large part of what draws me back to his films regularly. As was mentioned above, the redemption motif is not present in the movie as it doesn’t feature characters who have wandered down the kinds of paths that require a trip to that destination. What we do get are men who have either lost touch with or have yet to attain a fully rounded appreciation of humanity. So growth and renewal are the dominant themes, which I regard as a welcome detour. Daves was always very much at home shooting outdoors and he makes fine use of the Arizona and New Mexico locations, beautifully photographed by Charles Lawton Jr and with a fine George Duning score to complement the imagery.

For a long stretch it appears as though the plot is going to chart a hard bitten course, Harris soon has the exuberance knocked out of him by the unforgiving nature of both the environment and his companions. The whole purpose of his trek across the border is shattered in one moment of appalling revelation, a moment which threatens to tip him into a pit of despair and bitterness that is deep and steep sided. Similarly, Reese spends much of his time indulging his cynicism and abrasiveness. To all intents and purposes, that dismissive diatribe quoted at the head of this piece starts to sound more and more like a summation of the myth-busting stall the film has set out. Yet it’s a deceptive impression, for the characters played by Lemmon and Ford respectively learn and grow as a result of their experiences and their effect on each other. Lemmon had a knack for essaying a unique type of passion and enthusiasm that often felt manic and brittle. He comes perilously close to cracking under the strain and the provocations that come his way, but he matures in the process and tempers his excesses in a way that transforms them into strengths. Ford’s destination is slightly different, but just as fulfilling for the character and the viewer too. His path is essentially one of rediscovery and renewal, the bluster and machismo discarded as he witnesses the negativity of his influence mirrored in the meanness that threatens to harden the heart and damn the soul of his youthful partner. In support Brian Donlevy plays it quiet and pensive in a way that he didn’t always get the chance to, a disillusioned gunslinger looking for a different kind of life. There’s something very moving about his ultimate fate, and it proves to be one of the prime catalysts spurring Ford’s epiphany. Anna Kashfi (Marlon Brando’s first wife) is the only woman in a very masculine movie and although her role is important for its impact on Harris in particular, she’s only in the film for a short time. Richard Jaeckel, Dick York, Frank DeKova and Strother Martin are among those who also provide telling little sketches that serve to flesh out the story.

Cowboy is a fine Delmer Daves western, perhaps weakened somewhat by the lack of a more positive female character of the type that bolstered and added depth to his very best movies. Still, there’s much to admire in what we do get, visually, thematically and in the work of the principal cast members.

With this post I have now managed to cover all of the westerns directed by Delmer Daves. He’s a filmmaker whose work I never weary of sampling whatever the genre and his movies have been regularly featured here over the years. Below are links to all of his westerns that I have posted about.

Broken Arrow

Drum Beat

The Last Wagon

Jubal

3:10 to Yuma

The Badlanders

The Hanging Tree

Seven Ways from Sundown

/ Colin McGuigan / 32 Comments

It’s strange the way a modest Universal-International western can somehow encapsulate just about all the most important themes that propelled the genre to greatness in its heyday. Yet, in another way, it’s perhaps also appropriate this should be true of a movie starring Audie Murphy and coming at a point in time close to the end of what can now be regarded as the golden age of the western. Seven Ways from Sundown (1960) weaves threads incorporating such ideas as the gradual taming of the West, Fordian notions of printing the legend, sacrifice, and of course redemption into the fabric of its consistently entertaining sub-90 minute running time.

I like it when a movie pitches us right into the action. Seven Ways from Sundown opens with a shootout and the fire that ensues. The man responsible for this mayhem is Jim Flood (Barry Sullivan) and it’s soon established that he’s a man with an impressively fearsome reputation. Riding into the aftermath of Flood’s handiwork and drawing the ire of the exasperated townsfolk is an unsuspecting Texas Ranger rookie with the unique and memorable name of Seven Jones (Audie Murphy) – all the members of his family were unimaginatively named numerically, although his mother apparently tried to add some individual character and color by extending it to Seven Ways from Sundown Jones. His first assignment as a Ranger is to accompany a veteran sergeant, Hennessy (John McIntire), and effect the arrest of Flood. At this point the viewers are let in on a piece of information that Jones is not privy to, namely that Flood killed his elder brother. When Jones later catches up with Flood and sets about the laborious and perilous task of seeing him returned to face justice this hidden fact adds an anticipatory edge to the drama and alters the dynamic of the narrative to an extent. Suspense, guilt and the hint of another mystery are drawn into the story, further enriching it. This fluid, shifting quality is heightened and gains greater significance as we witness Flood’s roguish self-awareness slowly charm the simple and straightforward Jones. All told, it sets up a climax that manages to be at once fitting, affecting and satisfying.

Seven Ways from Sundown has what might be termed an interesting background. It was written by Clair Huffaker (Posse from Hell, Rio Conchos), adapted from his own novel and so has a solid pedigree to start off. A bit of browsing around the internet reveals that the movie was initially directed by George Sherman till an apparently serious row with Audie Murphy lead to Sherman’s departure and his replacement by Harry Keller (Quantez, Six Black Horses, Man Afraid). I’ve not been able to find a source for this though, nor have I managed to ascertain exactly how much of Sherman’s footage (if any) remains in the picture. The arc traced by the story and indeed the ethical journey undertaken by the main characters certainly seem like the kind of material that would have appealed to Sherman and which he would have handled with his customary sensitivity; the short interlude with the hero worshiping youngster, the brief yet still poignant moments spent over the old Ranger’s grave, as well as the low key romance with Venetia Stevenson all feel like the kind of thing Sherman would have relished.

Audie Murphy was doing some terrific work around this time – Posse from Hell, Hell Bent for Leather, The Unforgiven, No Name on the Bullet to name just a few westerns, as well as The Quiet American, every one of which are high quality movies. I would rate Seven Ways from Sundown as belonging up among his best movies, not necessarily due to Murphy’s own performance, which is perfectly fine, but more for the film that is built around it. Murphy plays it fresh and innocent even though he had over a decade’s worth of movies behind him at that point, and the contrast between the mentality and viewpoints of Jones and Flood is indicative of a West that was nearing a turning point. Murphy’s Ranger is open-hearted and honest, brimming with optimism and faith in man’s better nature, whereas Flood’s knowing charm masks if not cynicism then a touch of regret and an awareness that drifts near and flirts with an acknowledgement of the fact that his time is short. By the time this film was made change was in the air, the following decade would see the number of westerns produced drop off and a discernible shift in tone within a few years. Maybe this is not overtly expressed, but hints of it are there should you care to look for them.

Seven Ways from Sundown came out only a few years after Barry Sullivan had taken leading roles in westerns such as Dragoon Wells Massacre and Forty Guns, but it more or less marked the end of his time in such headline parts and he would shortly embark upon a two season run on television playing Pat Garrett in The Tall Man and then drift into supporting/character roles. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but I like to think his actions in the last reel represent something of a redemptive sacrifice when he’s confronted with both the impact of his actions and the realization that he’s finally running out of road – this complements and builds naturally on the moment of dreadful guilt that washed over him earlier when he understood that he had taken the life of an old friend. Venetia Stevenson, daughter of John Ford favorite Anna Lee and director Robert Stevenson, is someone I remember most for Day of the Outlaw and the effective low budget horror movie The City of the Dead. She shares a few good moments with Murphy, particularly towards the end when she puts him straight on the danger posed by Flood’s recklessness and then becomes an unwitting catalyst for the tragic yet apt climax. John McIntire could generally be relied upon to provide a touch of class to any movie and he does so here as Flood’s former associate. It’s a quiet performance and quite a touching one.

Seven Ways from Sundown has had a few releases on DVD in various European countries although I don’t think any of them present the movie in its correct widescreen ratio – it ought to be 1.85:1. I’ve certainly never seen it in anything other than open-matte, which while not ideal is at least better than a cropped version. All told, I consider it to be a superior Audie Murphy vehicle buoyed up by an eye-catching turn from Barry Sullivan that contains a generous measure of depth and subtlety.

Night and the City

/ Colin McGuigan / 27 Comments

“I just want to be somebody… “

Why does film noir continue to resonate? Why does it continue to pull in viewers, beguiled by its shadow drenched nightmares? That is does exert a draw on audiences is beyond question and part of it is maybe down to the look, the attitude, the charm of something at once recognizable yet lost in time. Still, I feel there’s something else at play for film noir is a very human form of filmmaking; it is predicated on the frank acknowledgment of weakness and frailty, perhaps growing out of character flaws, ill fortune, poor choices, or even some unholy trinity of them all. In a way, there is something about the lack of definition regarding film noir that points to its core appeal. There has been decades worth of conversation and controversy over when noir began, when it ended, what it actually is and whether it can even be referred to as  a genre. And at the end of it all, there remains no definitive answer, just schools of thought one might subscribe to. As such, is it possible that film noir is in essence a cinematic expression of uncertainty and confusion, mentally, morally and spiritually? Somehow it feels appropriate that the main character of Night and the City (1950) should say those words quoted at the head of this piece, struggling to articulate an ambition that he cannot fully visualize, much less define with clarity.

Movement and position matter. Anthony Mann frequently had his characters striving to rise, forging a path upward with mixed results, while Abraham Polonsky famously had John Garfield racing down from the heights. The characters in Jules Dassin’s Night and the City, on the other hand, start off at the bottom and remain resolutely anchored there. In a sense, nothing really changes throughout, at least not as far as Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark) is concerned. The opening and closing sequences see him racing through the streets of a broken post-war London, a grandiose chiseler with danger hot on his heels and the hope of sanctuary and salvation, even if it’s only temporary in nature, awaiting him in the form of Mary Bristol (Gene Tierney).

Harry Fabian is what can only be termed a dark dreamer, immature both emotionally and ethically. Mary loves him, that much is clear, not so much for what he is as what she imagines he could be, and Harry in a way is also in love with that projection of what he dreams he could be. The problem though is that neither Mary nor more importantly Harry himself is quite sure of who or what he might be. He is, as his neighbor observes, an artist without an art. We encounter him first as a strictly small time operator, a tout steering mugs to the clip joint where Mary sings, scratching around in the detritus of a city still partly bewildered in the wake of its wartime pummeling for any scheme that might turn a fast buck. Human nature being what it is, he’s not the first nor will he be the last person with his eye on the quickest way to reach easy street. The problem with this approach to life lies in the fact the route there is typically mined. Thus when Harry happens upon what seems like the perfect opportunity to muscle his way into the world of professional wrestling he fails to anticipate the the traps awaiting him. Blinded by his enthusiasm and unaware of how his smug efforts to play all of his rivals off against each other is actually weaving a Gordian knot of epic proportions, Harry is doomed by his own slickness.

It feels kind of appropriate that Jules Dassin would make Night and the City just as the appalling HUAC episode was reaching its peak. Zanuck had dispatched Dassin to London to shoot the movie where he would be beyond the reach of those congressional committees. By the time the movie was completed, the director was firmly on the blacklist and could no longer take any part in the editing process. Nevertheless, the result is portrait of bleak romanticism, where passion, ambition and duplicity all charge headlong towards an emotional intersection and the resulting collision leaves few survivors standing. I have seen assessments of the movie, both contemporary and subsequent, that lament the dearth of sympathetic characters, citing this aspect as a weakness. Such evaluations leave me wondering if I was watching the same movie. Perhaps it’s just me, but I’ve never seen the need to conflate admirable with sympathetic. I’ll concede that there are few truly admirable figures on show, but that does not mean there are none who are sympathetic. If anything, I would assert that almost all of the principals earn some sympathy.

Widmark’s role is almost as difficult to categorize as film noir itself. Fabian is neither hero nor villain in the proper sense of the words, nor would I be entirely comfortable referring to him as an anti-hero. Right up to the tragic moment which precipitates the climactic hunt, he does some contemptible things as he attempts to plug the leaks suddenly appearing in his plan, but the people he’s deceiving are no saints themselves so it’s hard to condemn him too much for that. As the various threads of his schemes become ever more entangled it’s a bit like watching an accident unfold in slow motion. Aside from his mounting desperation, a few moments such as the early scene in Tierney’s flat where the frustration of both  is emphasized, as well as the later exchange with an implacable hotel manager serve to add layers to the character and knock off some of the corners. I don’t believe either Dassin or screenwriter Jo Eisinger had any intention of passing judgment on Fabian and certainly don’t encourage the viewer to do so – he is merely presented as he is. His maneuvering does bring about tragedy, but that occurs indirectly. By the end, when he lies spent and bereft the appearance of Tierney framed in a doorway like some angel of the dawn affords him the opportunity to seek a form of redemption through personal sacrifice. Whatever one may make of the gesture, it does indicate a man who is not merely self-absorbed. What’s more, even though he may be abandoned and betrayed by almost everyone, there’s no getting away from the fact this woman loves him in spite of all his flaws – that in itself places the character on a different level.

That said, Tierney’s part is a relatively small one. Her important scenes bookend the movie and she’s only on screen intermittently in between. It seems that Zanuck was keen to have her in the cast and her role is a pivotal one despite the lack of screen time overall. By humanizing Harry Fabian and adding another dimension to his character, Tierney helps to ground the movie and give it greater emotional depth. The other major female role is that of Googie Withers, the discontented nightclub hostess who is trapped in a relationship for purely financial reasons, something which would not have been uncommon for a woman at the time. Sure she is underhanded and motivated by selfishness, but it’s not so difficult to understand how circumstances have driven her in that direction, nor do I believe it should be so hard to empathize with her efforts to extricate herself from a wholly unsatisfactory marriage. Her husband, played by the oppressively bulky Francis L Sullivan, is another figure who is far from perfect. Insecure despite his clout and dominance in the way such large men often are, he pulls strings and manipulates Harry Fabian like some malign puppeteer out of a desire to see him brought low and in so doing maybe hold onto the woman he so badly needs. It’s a performance that manages to be simultaneously dangerous, vindictive and pitiful.

Many of the other supporting players are portraying characters who are associated in one way or another with the wrestling world. This milieu is appropriate even if it’s not an area that has been extensively featured in film noir – Ralph Nelson’s Requiem for a Heavyweight is the only other notable example that I can think of off hand. Boxing tends to be the go-to sport and I find the choice here a telling one. Boxing might be susceptible to certain abuses,  it may attract corruption, but it still retains some inherent nobility, similar to the way Greco-Roman wrestling retains a link to the classicism of the ancient world and something finer. On the other hand, the crass vulgarity of professional wrestling exists on a much lower plane, a true moral wasteland. It’s that very cheapness, that sense of debasement which lies at the heart of Fabian’s flawed scheme and also forms the basis of the conflict between Herbert Lom’s shady underworld promoter and his scrupulously honest and dignified father. It’s highlighted too in the contrast between the easy superiority of that old athlete (Stanislaus Zbyszko) and the barely articulate coarseness of Mike Mazurki’s hulking and murderous pro.

Night and the City had two cuts, the shorter US version, which Dassin seems to have preferred, and a slightly longer British version. The UK Blu-ray from the Bfi, which now appears to be out of print and consequently is rather expensive, offered both cuts – I think the US Criterion also has both versions too though. I don’t know how popular a view this is, but I find I prefer the longer British cut of the film; perhaps the noir credentials are slightly weakened or some might say compromised yet I like the way it shades the character of Harry Fabian in another light. I find it provides another layer of tragedy and thus heightens the ambiguity of the experience. Nevertheless, this is prime film noir regardless of the version one favors and top filmmaking in anyone’s book. Widmark was only about a half dozen or so movies into his career at this point, already in the middle of a remarkable run of performances in very fine films while Dassin had just come off a short streak of excellent films noir. Under the circumstances, it’s hard to see how this one could miss. A first class movie all round.

Circle of Danger

/ Colin McGuigan / 29 Comments

Trails followed by hunters have a nasty habit of going cold very fast, but how long does it take a dish to get correspondingly cold? After all, there is that popular tip about the ideal temperature for serving up revenge. One would have thought five or six years ought to do the trick, and that’s about the time Ray Milland’s character takes to get round to seeking out the man responsible for the death of his brother towards the end of WWII in Circle of Danger (1951). Yet revenge is such a corrosive business, rarely bringing any kind of satisfaction to those who most desire it, and then there’s always that thorny question of whether or not it’s actually justified.

It’s perhaps a little unexpected to see a movie mainly shot in and featuring a cast and crew drawn largely from the UK opening on a salvage vessel operating off the Florida coast. Well that’s where we first come across Clay Douglas (Ray Milland) as he and his partner have just struck gold, or maybe I should say tungsten. This is the opportunity Douglas has been waiting for, five years of hard work finally paying off and allowing him to trade in his share in the business for thirty thousand dollars. He’s not looking to retire or anything, instead he’s been working to earn enough money to fund a trip to the UK in search of the truth about the demise of his younger brother. Despite his seemingly easy manner, Douglas is something of a driven man, fully focused on finding out how the kid brother he had almost single-handedly brought up came to die on a commando raid. People die all the time during major conflicts, even those plying trades nowhere near as perilous as that of a commando. So why would a man travel half way round the world to dig into this particular event? The fact is that the fog of war seems to lie especially thick around it all, and there was a rumor that the younger Douglas was dispatched by one of his own comrades in arms. The hunt for the truth has Clay Douglas cannoning round all the points of the compass, from London to the valleys of Wales and on to the Highlands of Scotland. Both the war and the subsequent passage of time has whittled the list of men who might be able to furnish him with the information he craves down to a mere handful. And it remains to be seen whether the tale that emerges is the one he had hoped to hear at the outset.

Straightforward revenge stories are never all that interesting. Sure there’s a certain visceral thrill to be tapped into if the elements are lined up in the right way, but such yarns tend to take on an exploitative feel which I generally find unappealing. The better examples, and I think Circle of Danger qualifies as such, raise questions that ought to make both the protagonist on the screen and the audience facing it a trifle uncomfortable. It all boils down to whether or not life’s thorny tangles can be adequately addressed in cut and dried, binary terms. I don’t think it’s giving too much away here to say that Philip MacDonald’s script turns the central quest back upon itself by the end, forcing not only the avenger to question himself, but also requiring the viewer to reassess a number of preconceptions we’ve been hitherto encouraged to blindly accept. This renders that three cornered confrontation on the Scottish moor all the more fascinating, and consequently leads to a resolution which is enriched by its acknowledgment of the sometimes ambiguous nature of justice. A delicate subject of this kind needs to be handled sensitively, not with a heavy lump hammer approach, so producers Joan Harrison and David E Rose deserve credit for securing the services of a director  with the lightness of touch and subtlety of Jacques Tourneur.

There has to be something steely and almost obsessive about a man who is prepared to hand over a significant chunk of his life in the pursuit of retribution. I wouldn’t want to claim it is a state of mind exclusive to the years following the Second World War but, in cinematic terms at least, it is a motif that was explored recurrently and came to characterize more than a few screen protagonists – James Stewart was a prime example of this phenomenon but he was certainly not the only one. This needs a quality of intensity to carry it off, something Ray Milland touches on throughout Circle of Danger, particularly in the climactic scenes in the Highlands, but probably not as consistently as he might have. That’s not to say his character is ever less than focused on the ultimate prize, but he does drift towards casualness bordering on nonchalance on occasion, not least when he’s flirting with Patricia Roc. She brings a freshness and vitality to the movie, a teasing allure that still allows her to switch to a more serious mode when she senses betrayal of one form or another. The other person vying for her attention is Hugh Sinclair’s reticent Scot, the one-time leader of the commando group and a man who seems none too keen on furnishing any more details on past than he can help. His is a key role and Sinclair does well in getting across both the caution of the man as well as what I can only term contained suffering. Then there is Marius Goring giving an energetic yet wholly credible performance as the man whose homosexuality is never openly stated (it is a 1951 movie after all) but which is very clearly alluded to. I think one of the most interesting aspects of the script in general is way it encourages the audience to make various initial assumptions about all three of the male characters before challenging these preconceptions and upending them.

Circle of Danger had been released on DVD by the now defunct Network in what was an entirely acceptable edition. However, it has recently reappeared on Blu-ray via Studio Canal – I haven’t seen that transfer yet but I would expect it to enhance the visuals, and there are some fine looking shots in the film courtesy of cinematographer Oswald Morris. This is a good movie, deftly directed by Jacques Tourneur and cleverly written by Philip MacDonald, drawing the viewer in, setting up certain expectations and then neatly subverting them in a way that continually poses questions which tend to defy pat or convenient answers. It’s a film I’m happy to recommend.

Spy Hunt

/ Colin McGuigan / 13 Comments

Sampling the pleasures of the uncomplicated world of B movies is something I never tire of. Remember, despite what some glib types might tell you, a B movie does not mean a bad movie. There is an art to producing a slick and brisk piece of entertainment on a budget. Back in the days of the big studios, this was easier to do of course. There were specialized units dedicated to churning out support features and a large pool of talent on both sides of the camera who could be relied on to produce work that might not have cost a lot but was still polished and professional. Spy Hunt (1950) is an example of this, a 75 minute mystery adventure, shot with a certain elan by George Sherman using an attractive cast and benefiting from a script derived from a Victor Canning novel.

As soon as the titles appear on screen, it will be apparent to anyone familiar with films of this era that we’re in solid B territory. Those titles are accompanied by the immediately recognizable music that was used to introduce the Rathbone/Bruce Sherlock Holmes series for Universal throughout the 1940s.  Others may disagree, but I find something rather comforting in that, like meeting up with old friends after a long separation. Then the opening scene takes place on a train, even better a train speeding through the night to some unspecified destination – and so we are powered along from the sense of the familiar towards the unknown, with pace, urgency and mystery jogging by our side. A furtive figure locks himself in, and proceeds to conceal a strip of microfilm inside a cigarette. Disembarking on a platform in Milan, that same man lights up, takes a brief drag on the cigarette, and then discards it with elaborate casualness. He’s caught the attention of someone first, however. Someone who nonchalantly recovers that cigarette and saunters off alone. The someone in question is a woman by the name of Catherine (Marta Toren), a spy or courier for some government – the name is never revealed and it’s not something the viewer needs to know anyway as the microfilm itself is in the nature of a Hitchcockian MacGuffin, a plot device that is vital to the characters but of only  marginal importance to the audience. Some sly subterfuge on Catherine’s part ensures that said microfilm ends up secreted within the collar of one of a pair of panthers being transported across Europe and eventually on to a circus in the US.  To do so, she first has to distract the big cats’ escort, a drifter called Steve Quain (Howard Duff) who is keen to earn his passage back to the States. It all sounds like a neat if somewhat convoluted plan, but others are on to it and what ought to have been a harmless deception ends up with the freight car being uncoupled and derailed, two dangerous cats inadvertently released into the wilds of Switzerland, and Quain facing the threat posed by a ruthless but unidentified antagonist who is eager to reclaim the elusive microfilm.

The title says it all really, the film being essentially a pursuit by spies and assorted agents of a piece of damning evidence, blending in elements of the whodunit (the identity of the villain is deftly kept a matter of suspicion and conjecture till near the end) and the outdoor adventure. The fact that the escaped panthers pose a real danger to all who cross their path, animals and people alike, provides an original twist to what would otherwise be a fairly standard espionage yarn. While I’ve read a few Victor Canning novels and seen a number of adaptations of his work – Golden Salamander, Venetian Bird, The House of the Seven Hawks, and Hitchcock’s Family Plot – I’ve not yet had the opportunity to read Panther’s Moon, which was the basis of this film, but scanning a brief synopsis of its plot suggests the movie is quite faithful to the source material. George Sherman directs with assurance, wasting no time on the irrelevancies and managing to create a few notable setups that emphasize the suspense, from the atmospheric views of the railway siding by night to carefully composed overhead shots in the Swiss inn as well as some fine close-ups.

Howard Duff presents an honest, two-fisted likeability in the lead that was a trademark of his time at Universal. Marta Toren makes for a resourceful spy and an attractive headache for Duff. Neither one is stretched dramatically yet they turn in the type of work that makes it no chore whatsoever to spend an hour and a bit in their company. Robert Douglas and Philip Friend are dutifully suspicious in  support and are well backed up by Walter Slezak, Philip Dorn and Kurt Kreuger. Watching these actors do their thing had me thinking how I often find myself influenced by the roles I first saw certain performers take on. For instance, Slezak has a relatively benign part in this movie, but somewhere at the back of my mind (and this is despite my knowledge of his work in sympathetic roles such as that in Mankiewicz’s People Will Talk) I still associate him with sinister characters like those he played in Lifeboat or The Fallen Sparrow. Similarly, for better or worse, I find I forever associate Philip Dorn with Passage to Marseille and Kurt Kreuger with Preston Sturges’ Unfaithfully Yours.

Spy Hunt has been released by Kino in the US in one of their film noir sets. Previously, it had been a title, like so many Universal-International movies, that one read or heard about while wondering if a copy that was viewable would ever turn up. The last few years has seen some remarkable progress in that area and there are now far fewer of these “lost” rarities. Having said that, I do want to point out that I can see no real justification for marketing this movie as film noir. That’s not meant as a criticism of the film, just a footnote for those who haven’t seen it to make them aware that it’s an espionage mystery first and foremost. Of course if the film noir label makes it easier to market it and get it out there for people to see, then so be it.

The Professionals

/ Colin McGuigan / 36 Comments

La Revolución is like a great love affair. In the beginning, she is a goddess. A holy cause. But, every love affair has a terrible enemy: time. We see her as she is. La Revolución is not a goddess but a whore. She was never pure, never saintly, never perfect. And we run away, find another lover, another cause. Quick, sordid affairs. Lust, but no love. Passion, but no compassion. Without love, without a cause, we are nothing! We stay because we believe. We leave because we are disillusioned. We come back because we are lost. We die because we are committed.

Random musings on the nature of revolution, words which have an attractive feel, a weary patina lying somewhere just the right side of cynicism. That, I think, is the effect they are meant to convey, but therein is their problem, and by extension part of the problem of the movie they appear in. Hearing them spoken by Jack Palance’s wounded rebel and reading them back here leaves me with the impression that they have been crafted for just that, for effect rather than for truth or out of any real conviction. I watched The Professionals (1966) again the other day, a movie I’ve seen  fair few times now, and came away from it thinking it entertaining enough although somewhat lacking in substance. Like so many films by Richard Brooks, it doesn’t do much wrong, doing a lot right in fact, yet never actually amounts to as much as the filmmaker would have us believe.

During the latter half of the Mexican Revolution a group of four men, introduced via brief sketches during the opening credits, are hired by a wealthy businessman to get his kidnapped wife back. That’s the plot of the movie in a nutshell. It’s a simple enough setup, fleshed out by the colorful nature of a some of the leads as well as the dynamic created by their intertwined pasts, and of course the turbulent background of a country riven by internal conflict. The hired hands are led by Rico Fardan (Lee Marvin) a former associate of Pancho Villa, Bill Dolworth (Burt Lancaster) a womanizing rogue with a talent for blowing things up, Ehrengard (Robert Ryan) a diffident wrangler, and Jake (Woody Strode) a tracker and expert with a longbow. Their employer is one J W Grant (Ralph Bellamy), an ageing tycoon married to the much younger Maria (Claudia Cardinale). On the other side is Raza (Jack Palance), one of those bandits with a reputation approaching legendary status. The story is broken into a classic three act structure – the preparation and the journey out, the rescue, and the ride back leading to the denouement. If it sounds a bit formulaic, that’s because it is. There aren’t really too many surprises and the twist that is supposed to grab the viewer comes as more of a shock to the characters on screen.

This probably sounds more negative than I mean it to – the film is (as one would hope from the title) all very professionally shot and put together. It’s amiable and exciting in all the right places, the big set piece assault on Raza’s hacienda is filmed with style, the dialogue is peppered with memorable one-liners, and Conrad Hall photographs the desert locations beautifully. Yet when it all wraps up and the final credits roll, I can’t help feeling I’ve just had the cinematic equivalent of an attractively packaged fast food meal – pleasing and enjoyable while it’s there in front of you, but not something that is going to linger long in the memory when it’s finished.

A film scripted and directed by Richard Brooks (The Last Hunt) from a novel by Frank O’Rourke (The Bravados) inevitably raises expectations given the examples of the author’s and the director’s work cited. I guess that’s why it belongs in my own personal category of movies I like and enjoy even though I don’t believe they warrant an especially high rating. Films such as The Last Hunt and The Bravados stay with you long after they have been viewed, the performances and themes, the images and the very philosophy underpinning them have a way of boring into one’s consciousness and commanding attention. I guess what it comes down to is this – those are movies which touch on greatness, The Professionals is fun.

Lee Marvin and Jack Palance appeared in, by my count, four movies together – in additions to this, there’s Attack, I Died a Thousand Times and Monte Walsh. I feel confident that the latter is by far the best of them, closely followed by Aldrich’s intense study of men in war. The fact is all of the star players, and I’m counting Lancaster, Ryan, Cardinale, Strode and Bellamy here, all made much stronger films, all had roles that stretched them and highlighted their strengths to a greater degree than this. On the other hand, every one of these people are in essence playing types in The Professionals. This is not to say their performances are poor or weak, merely that the way the roles are written allow for next to no development – there are hints of back stories, mentions of experiences that would shape characters, but none of those characters grow over the course of the story. What we see at the start is pretty much the same as what we see at the end.

So, is The Professionals a good movie? The critics seem to have been kind over the years and its reputation remains strong. I like it well enough myself; I’ve watched it a number of times and I’m not in the habit of doing so with films which hold no appeal. Even so, I retain reservations about it, which I think is representative of my attitude to or how I respond to much of Richard Brooks’ work. Parts of his oeuvre hit the mark, have an impact beyond the immediate and provoke me in some way. On the other hand, all too often I find I’m left only half satisfied.

The Barefoot Contessa

/ Colin McGuigan / 51 Comments

“I suppose that when you spend most of your life in one profession you develop what could be called an occupational point of view.”

Write what you know. Isn’t that the classic line of advice offered to all budding scribes? When Humphrey Bogart’s character speaks those words above as the camera pans on the opening scene of The Barefoot Contessa (1954) there is at the very least a flavor of that sentiment on display.  And if Hollywood knows anything, it surely knows about the path to fame and about each and every pothole mining the route that leads there. Self-awareness, so long as it’s kept on a short enough rein to prevent its spinning off into self-indulgence, can be healthy; it grants perspective and that along with what I can only term soul are the essential ingredients of creativity. So “Hollywood on Hollywood” has been a productive sub-genre over the years, permitting the movies and their makers to take a look at themselves and inviting the viewer to peel back a corner of the mask for a glimpse of what lies behind. Such films generally fall into two categories, ranging from the celebratory to the acerbic. The Barefoot Contessa lands somewhere in the middle, perhaps because it is itself a story pitched halfway between Hollywood exposé and a meditation on fate.

That air of fatalism pervades the movie, right from the rainswept introduction in an Italian cemetery, where a pensive Harry Dawes (Humphrey Bogart) casts his mind back over the few short years when he came to know the titular character. He stands a little apart, slightly detached from the other assorted mourners, although all of them are separated from each other in pairs and little clusters. This detachment is somehow appropriate, as fitting in its own way as the low key setting of this last farewell. These people have gathered to pay their respects to Maria Vargas (Ava Gardner), a one-time flamenco dancer from the back streets of Madrid who would later find fame on the screen as Maria D’Amato, before ending her life as the Contessa Torlato-Favrini. It’s appropriate because although the movie traces the brief rise and fall of Maria Vargas everything that is shown is filtered through the perceptions of others, those who tell her story to the viewer. Harry Dawes does the lion’s share of the telling, he was the one who was credited as having “discovered” her or mentored her in any case. As we segue into a flashback to the club in Madrid where Maria dances by night, the tone is set with great deftness. Her dancing is never observed, only the reactions of the audience provides a sense of her. While the camera roves around the assorted patrons, it becomes clear the woman who holds them all rapt is offering a reflection of what they all feel – the responses vary from frank admiration to surreptitious desire, as love, passion, frustration and shame flash across the screen and the faces of the assembled watchers in waves. And then it’s over, the dance is done and the star vanishes back to her own privacy as the beaded curtain swings back into position.

In what might be taken as a subtle dig at Hollywood forever playing catch-up with regard to popular trends, no sooner has the main attraction vacated the stage than the people from the movies arrive. The aforementioned Harry Dawes is tagging along with Kirk Edwards (Warren Stevens) a buttoned up producer reminiscent of Howard Hughes, Oscar Muldoon (Edmond O’Brien) whose glittering eyes and glistening face speak of perspiration and PR, and a burnished blonde courtesan by the name of Myrna (Mari Aldon). Kirk Edwards is a mean vulgarian, a shell of a man high on his own sanctimony and motivated only by the manipulative power of the dollar. He has flown his entourage all the way to Spain to see Maria Vargas dance and maybe offer her a contract. And now he has arrived too late, but such a man cannot countenance this kind of ill-fortune. He orders, savoring the humiliation the whole process entails, first Oscar and then Harry to fetch the aloof dancer to his table. While Oscar sweats and schmoozes Maria out of agreeing to a screen test, Harry is left with literally no option but to track down and persuade her to change her mind. Where Oscar’s sweat failed, Harry’s sincerity triumphs and Maria is on her way to stardom.

Exit Harry, temporarily. And enter Oscar, the vacuous nature of the publicity man firmly to the fore as he takes up the narration, charting the course of a life and spirit he freely admits he could never quite fathom. Of course Oscar doesn’t do depth, he does his master’s bidding. Partially due to the liberating effect of being around a woman who has no time for the fakery and front that stardom seems to demand, he sees his world view shifting ever so slightly. His remit is to guide us through the downfall of Kirk Edwards and Maria’s move on to the next phase of her life as the principal exhibit of Alberto Bravano (Marius Goring), a Latin playboy with no discernible character. This is a shorter interlude, a stepping stone on the way to Maria’s ultimate destination. Soon, the tale is taken up by Vincenzo Torlato-Favrini (Rossano Brazzi), the tortured aristocrat who is tragically incapable of real love, able only to venerate and deify. It is he who commissions the marble statue of Maria that will ultimately mark her final resting place, a cold approximation of beauty that is as cold and blank as his own helpless passivity.

Ava Gardner’s Maria Vargas drifts through the movie, and I use that term quite deliberately. As I said, at the beginning, the story is deeply fatalistic. Both by her words and her actions the lead character is presented as a woman unable to, or perhaps unwilling to, completely break from the past and take command of her destiny. The whole barefoot business ties into this, an explicit acknowledgment that the past is an integral part of oneself, functioning either as a brake on ambitions and aspirations or as a means of grounding one in reality. I don’t say this is a philosophy I particularly sympathize with, but it is there, it defines the whole mood of the piece and is well realized. Ava Gardner’s performance here is key to that realization and is almost a subversion of her typical screen persona. Earthy is the word that  frequently springs to mind when I think of her rather than ethereal yet it is the latter quality which she conveys throughout much of the film. Sure she has her moments of fire, but she never allows her natural vigor to overshadow that acceptance of a life directed by the golden threads of the Moirai.

The Barefoot Contessa is not a film that works for everybody, maybe due to that air of languor that grows out of its core fatalism. Then again it might be the wordiness of the script that bothers some, but I’d argue that anyone knowingly approaching a Joseph L Mankiewicz film and finding that aspect an issue ought to know better in the first place. Personally, I’m inclined to think that the third act, that beautifully shot and achingly poignant Italian interlude is most problematic. It is not a question of where the film is going or even where it ends up that hurts it, rather it is the playing of Rossano Brazzi that I think takes the edge off it all. Although I’ll concede he gets the futile desperation of his character across, I don’t think Brazzi was ever the most magnetic presence at the best of times and that becomes an issue here. It is undoubtedly a tricky part to carry off, but I just do not see him as the object of Gardner’s grand passion, the man who has that something which she never found elsewhere. Without that, one of the main props of the story is seriously weakened.

Bogart’s name was top of the bill and his bookending of the narrative is nicely judged. His later films weren’t always all they could have been, even if his own work was as strong as ever for the most part. His peak years were often characterized by that tough insolence that has spawned so many imitators, but he had more to him than that when he wanted or was allowed to show it. The Barefoot Contessa lets him reveal a warmer side than usual. Even if it’s tempered by the weariness and regret that came easily to him, there is an empathy on display which is very attractive. In support Edmond O’Brien sweet talked his way to an Oscar playing Oscar; there’s a degree of showiness as there nearly always is with award winning turns and he makes what is on paper a pretty miserable character more appealing than he probably ought to be, still it’s an engaging and memorable bit of work. Warren Stevens achieves an almost reptilian stillness as the soulless tycoon and it’s fun seeing him face off against a very theatrical Marius Goring in their big confrontation scene. Valentina Cortese, Elizabeth Sellars and Mari Aldon all have their moments even though their parts are relatively minor.

The Barefoot Contessa got a Blu-ray release in the US from the now defunct Twilight Time and then later in the UK via Eureka. I have that UK BD which now appears to have gone out of print and it’s a fine looking transfer of the movie that makes the most of Jack Cardiff’s beautiful cinematography. I don’t always mention scores or soundtracks, which I know is remiss of me, and so I want also to take the opportunity to draw attention to Mario Nascimbene’s evocative work on the movie. I wouldn’t want to claim The Barefoot Contessa is a flawless work as I am aware that it has its weaknesses and doesn’t appeal to all. However, it is and has long been a favorite of mine, ever since I stumbled on an early evening TV broadcast nearly forty years ago.

Well, that about wraps it up for 2023. I’d like to say thank you to everybody who came along for the ride over the last twelve months. Here’s to 2024 and here’s hoping it brings peace and happiness to us all. Happy New Year!

The Last Frontier

/ Colin McGuigan / 75 Comments

“Civilization is creepin’ up on us…”

There’s a similar sentiment, and indeed similar words, expressed at the start of Raoul Walsh’s The Tall Men. Indeed it could be said that variations on this theme run all through the western genre. Can it be said then that the western is at heart an unfolding elegy? One would certainly be justified in applying that label to many of those movies made in the late 1960s and on into the following decade, what have come to be referred to as revisionist works. Yet the roots of that can be found in the classic era, the golden age of the genre in the 50s, when the spirit of celebration, of hope and redemption, were just beginning to be tinged with a hint of regret at the gradual drift away from an ideal. Even the title of Anthony Mann’s The Last Frontier (1955) catches a flavor of that crossing of the Rubicon. Granting that the notion of the Old West as some pastoral idyll was as much myth as reality, it seems fitting that the process which plays out before the viewer is not framed in terms of tragedy, although there are clearly tragic elements woven into it all, but is instead presented as a natural and perhaps desirable step towards the inevitable.

The opening of The Last Frontier presents an image of perfect wilderness, of a land largely untouched by man. Yet we see three men making their through the rocks and trees. This is Jed Cooper (Victor Mature) and his two companions Gus and Mungo (James Whitmore and Pat Hogan), and before long the earth around them seems to take on another form as an encircling band of Sioux rise up from the grass and scrub as though they were children of the soil itself. The thing is both groups, the trappers and the Sioux alike, give the impression of being just another natural extension of their environment. Nevertheless, the trappers are made aware of the fact they have come to represent the intruder, are promptly deprived of their weapons, horses and bearskins and warned to stay clear of the forests. Why? In brief, the arrival of the army and the construction of a fort has altered the way the Sioux now perceive them. Indignant and resigned yet still alive, Cooper makes for the fort in search of some form of compensation for the loss of a year’s worth of hides. What he gets, however, is the offer of employment as a scout under the young acting commander Captain Riordan (Guy Madison). Despite the reservations of his friends, Cooper is beguiled by the thought of a blue tunic with brass buttons and wonders if he might not get to wear one at some point. Thus he begins to fall under the spell of civilization, a feeling further enhanced when he makes the acquaintance (albeit in a drunken and rambunctious state) of Mrs Marston (Anne Bancroft), the wife of the absent senior officer. Colonel Marston (Robert Preston) is at that point on the other side of Red Cloud’s Sioux, which by Cooper’s calculation means he’s probably dead.

As it turns out he’s very much alive and Cooper’s efforts to guide him and what remains of his command back to the safety of the fort earn him little in the way of gratitude. Marston is far from being a well man, psychologically at least. He carries the scars of shame and defeat, haunted by the ghosts of the 1500 souls he led to their graves at Shiloh. The western is full of men in desperate need of redemption, though as often as not the wounds they seek to heal are neither so deep nor so raw as those which afflict Marston. His goal is to excise the pain of defeat through victory over Red Cloud. Unwittingly, Cooper’s growing need to embrace civilization and all he perceives it as offering leaves him pinned at the center of both an emotional and military crisis that Marston is hell bent on engineering. Ultimately, all the elements will be drawn together in a swirling maelstrom of dust and death.

The westerns of Anthony Mann are among the greatest of the classic era. They typically feature driven and obsessive heroes, and of course the concept of redemption is never far from the surface. That sense of redemption, of restoring oneself spiritually, of paying one’s debts and regaining one’s rightful path in life is a powerful one and Mann spent a decade exploring it. In The Last Frontier the character most noticeably driven is Marston, a man who has hounded himself to the brink of sanity and even of humanity. He is not the hero of the piece, though one could say that if he doesn’t quite redeem himself he does get to earn his peace, although it comes at a considerable cost to others. Cooper is the undoubted hero, a crude and unfinished product of nature, one who doesn’t need redemption in the sense of making atonement but rather one who has reached a critical point in life and requires guidance. I guess there’s something ironic in the figure of the pathfinder in the wilderness threshing around at the gates of civilization and needing help to regain his course. Yet that is what happens.

I think that the message of this movie is that no state or situation is to be sought in itself, that the myth of the free and open west is only sustainable and valid if it’s viewed as a stage in a process, an attractive stage in many ways but not a permanent destination. Marston’s relentless drive toward confrontation comes to the only end that it can, and of course history leaves us in no doubt that the staunch resistance to change of Red Cloud was similarly doomed. So what then of the other options? There is a strong feeling that the settler can only go so far till the siren call of civilization drowns out the pull of the untamed land. There is a pivotal moment late on when Mature, having abandoned the fort in the wake of one of those brutal fights so typical of a Mann film, must confront the fact that he can go no further. His journey is going to have to continue along a different path, one which leads back to civilization or whatever form of it he cares to shape for himself. Mungo, the native, is not restrained in the same way and is thus free to proceed on his own trek, one which is expressed in Mann’s characteristic cinematic language as a journey forever upwards, always ascending and always seeking to attain some higher place. Maybe both are heading for the same destination, just taking different routes to get there?

I haven’t given a lot of attention to the performances in this movie, which is a bit of a departure from my usual formula. That’s mainly due to my choosing to focus more on the themes and ideas underpinning the movie, as well as the fact that all of the principals are uniformly excellent. However, I would like to single out some remarkable work from the often maligned Victor Mature – he really gets into the character of the unpolished trapper, investing the part with a passion and raw energy that is wholly convincing as he cannons back and forth between confusion, wonder and enthusiasm. I think it’s a terrific performance. A word too for the cinematography of William C Mellor, where he and Mann fashion a neat juxtaposition of dark and claustrophobic conditions within the (confining, civilizing or both?) walls of the fort and the bright, open airiness of the surrounding landscape. As far as I know, the only Blu-ray release of The Last Frontier is the German edition. It is a good if not great transfer, certainly a step up from the rather indifferent DVD but I must say I’m mystified why this interesting Anthony Mann film remains unreleased in the US or UK with the kind of supplementary material it surely warrants.

As an aside, and for what it’s worth, yesterday marked sixteen years to the day since my first uncertain blog entry.

Drum Beat

/ Colin McGuigan / 33 Comments

The idea that in order to resolve a problem one ought to have first hand knowledge of it appears sound. That’s the theory that Drum Beat (1954) puts forward, that a the best man to negotiate a peace is one who has been intimately involved in the hostilities. It’s a variation of sorts on the notion of setting a thief to catch a thief, only imbued with the kind of latent optimism that characterizes the work of writer and director Delmer Daves. It takes some real events and people from the Modoc War and uses them as the basis for a story that champions the need for rapprochement, hammering home the point that the harder it is to win, the more meaningful it becomes. The movie shares some similarities with Daves’ groundbreaking Broken Arrow, although it’s not as good that earlier film. Nevertheless, all of the director’s westerns are worthwhile in my opinion and even if Drum Beat doesn’t quite measure up to his stronger efforts, that is not to say there is nothing to recommend it.

The movie opens in Washington, in the White House in fact. There’s a marvelous informality to this, something that is hard to conceive of nowadays, as Johnny MacKay (Alan Ladd) simply walks right in and states that he has an appointment to see President Grant. It’s all about a new initiative aimed at bringing the Modoc War to an end. Washington wants to see the conflict resolved through negotiation and diplomacy, and that is where McKay comes in. His brief is to make contact with the Modoc chief Captain Jack (Charles Bronson) and attempt to coax him back to the reservation. MacKay would appear to be an odd choice for the role of peacemaker given his history as a famed Indian fighter, not to mention the fact his family had been slaughtered in an earlier massacre. Yet he’s the one selected and it’s precisely because of his background that he has made the cut. Jack is not the type to be swayed by professional purveyors of platitudes, he too is a man of action and as such more likely to pay heed to someone whose fearsome reputation precedes him. MacKay is of course aware of the magnitude of the challenge facing him and once back on the frontier it quickly becomes apparent to the viewer too. When two antagonistic cultures are living in close proximity then resentment can easily flare into something much more dangerous as a result of pettiness and relatively minor gripes getting out of hand. That proves to be the case as slights and harsh words lead to aggression and then senseless killing, only to be followed up by more tit for tat revenge before exploding into full on warfare. All the while, MacKay has to maintain his own self-discipline and sense of duty, partly as he’s given his word and partly because he gradually realizes that his mission represents the only way out of the impasse.

Drum Beat was the second western for Delmer Daves, following on from Broken Arrow and sharing some common themes, including the quest for some kind of peaceful co-existence between settlers and the native population, and also the idea of interracial relationships. Broken Arrow dealt with both more effectively, perhaps because of the characterizations of Jeff Chandler and Charles Bronson as Cochise and Captain Jack respectively, and also because the leads in both films approached their roles in a different way, but I’ll come to that a little later. Daves would go on to write the script, but did not take on the director’s responsibilities, for the following year’s White Feather and that too is a more satisfying movie all round. While there are aspects of this movie which are less successful, what does work is the director’s eye for a beautiful composition. There are some terrific shots of the Arizona locations on view, the mythic landscape dominating the CinemaScope frame and the frequently minuscule figures within it in a way that recalls Ford.

I’ve read some critiques of the movie that state it presents a far less favorable image of the Modoc than Daves’ previous western. I can see how that impression can be formed and I’ll admit there are some grounds for it, but I’m not convinced it’s entirely accurate. Jack’s faction is shown as reckless, mercurial and belligerent, but that’s as much a reflection of the character of the man as anything. The other side of the coin is presented by Marisa Pavan and Anthony Caruso as the siblings who favor reaching some kind of accommodation. What’s more, the whole point of the story, as I see it at least, is the that the drive for peace between two implacable forces is never going to be an easy process and it’s difficult to convey such a message without emphasizing warlike tendencies. Admittedly, Jack’s Modocs do appear more violent and their grievances receive precious little attention while the inherent prejudice and shortsightedness of the other side is mainly confined to Robert Keith’s hot headed character. What Daves does eschew is piety and self-righteousness. The character of the easterner Dr Thomas is portrayed as pompous, priggish and ultimately ineffectual, while the preacher who attends Jack in his cell at the end is given short shrift.

What then can we say about the actors? Alan Ladd had just made one of the great westerns in Shane and his career was at its peak. For all that, his performance here is decidedly subdued, not just the usual quiet understatement he often brought to the screen, but a calm detachment that seems overdone. I get that his character is a man who has had to rein in his emotional reactions in order to fulfill the mission he’s been handed, but all the provocation, tragedy and bubbling passions that are erupting around him arguably call for a more dynamic response. Charles Bronson fares better in a showy part as the Modoc warlord, strutting and powerful and with a gleam in his eye. It’s an entertaining turn, but there’s not a lot of nuance to it. Daves typically got good results from the female cast members and I think Marisa Pavan in particular comes across well in her selfless devotion to Ladd’s character. I find it pleasing that Pavan (the twin sister of Pier Angeli) is still with us and I hope to feature more of her work here – The Midnight Story is a film I plan to get round to in the (hopefully) not too distant future. Happily, Dubliner Audrey Dalton is another screen veteran who is still going strong. She represented the other point in the romantic triangle alongside Pavan and Ladd, although I don’t feel that whole subplot really plays out in an especially compelling way. That coolness and distance displayed by Ladd does it no favors. As for support, we’re somewhat spoiled with a long list of names drifting in and out including Warner Anderson, Rodolfo Acosta, Elisha Cook Jr, Frank Ferguson, Willis Bouchey, Robert Keith, Isabel Jewell and more.

Drum Beat was impossible to see in its correct ‘Scope ratio  for a long time until it came out via the Warner Archive. I’ve not yet seen a movie by Daves that I dislike, and most of them are films I unreservedly love. However, Drum Beat is a bit disappointing, not least when it is set beside the towering achievements of his other westerns. It looks beautiful in places and it has that intuitive feel for the Old West that one expects. Still, his trademark sensitivity only appears sporadically, not surprisingly most evident in those scenes where his female characters are prominent – Pavan’s sacrifice and its aftermath, the dignity and regard she and Dalton extend to each other, Isabel Jewell’s cameo, and so on. I’d term it a good western for the most part, but only a moderate entry among this director’s credits.