What Was The Last Movie You Watched?

[Fading Fast]

A Hatful of Rain from 1957 with Anthony Franciosa, Don Murray, Eva Marie Saint, Lloyd Nolan, Henry Silva and William Hickey


While England in the late 1950s and early 1960s was making its powerful "kitchen sink" dramas about the struggles of the working class, America had already started making similar movies a bit earlier, but lacking a catchy title, they get less attention from movie fans today.

A Hatful of Rain is a "kitchen sink" film done American style as we see a working class family in New York City all but fall apart owing to one family member's drug addiction, which eventually drags out every skeleton in the family's closet.

Don Murray plays a morphine addict, a habit he acquired in the Army recovering from wounds in Korea. His pregnant wife, played by Eva Marie Saint, doesn't know about his addiction, but his faithful brother, played by Anthony Franciosa, knows all too well about it.

The last piece of the family puzzle is the brothers' father, played by Lloyd Nolan, who lives in Florida. He, too, doesn't know anything about his favorite son's problem, but at the movie's opening, he shows up for an unannounced visit.

The movie looks at a few days of Murray's life as a drug addict, now reaching a crisis stage. This forces the family to face many of their problems, which includes the boys both resenting their father for not being there for them after their mother died when they were just infants.

The father, Nolan, a selfish braggart with a thin veneer of charm, resents that the boys don't worship him enough, even though they have good reason not to. Time and again, we see Nolan's pleasant facade quickly dissolve into an angry tirade when he doesn't get his way.

Saint, looking too blonde, pretty and clean, to have married into this mess of a family, thinks Murray is cheating on her as he never explains his long absences related to his drug addiction. Saint, pregnant, lonely and scared, also develops feelings for Franciosa, which are mutual.

Amidst all this family dysfunction bubbling just below the surface of normalcy the family attempts to maintain, is Murray's frightening drug dealer, "Mother," played by Henry Silva, and his two henchmen, one of whom is played with a sinister creepiness by William Hickey.

Look for the scene where a strung-out Murray begs "Mother" for a free fix, while Hickey - a fidgety and insignificant looking man - gleefully begs Silva to let him work Murray over with "the pipe" (a heavy piece of metal). One shivers knowing that there are soulless sociopaths like Hickey in the world.

A series of crises follow as Murray's addiction has Franciosa bankrupting himself to pay Murray's dealer off so that he won't harm his brother. Saint, meanwhile, considers leaving what she believes is her philandering husband.

Catalyzing all of this is Nolan, who walks through his family quietly throwing hand grenades about his sons letting him down. This becomes too much for the boys to take as Murray's addiction consumes him, while it also buffets Franciosa and Saint.

Director Fred Zinnemann captures all of this with a surprising realism for the era. While you don't see Murray shooting up, his addiction, withdrawal, despair and the lurking violent threat of his drug dealer are on full display, as is the crushing burden it places on the family.

Enough can't be said about the performances either, as Murray looks like Captain America with a drug addiction, which is part of the point. Franciosa gives one of his career-best performances as the not-favorite son who quietly and thanklessly tries to hold the family together.

Saint, too, deserves note. Like the angelic Mary Ure in the 1959 English kitchen sink drama Look Back in Anger, you wonder how Saint, an ethereal-looking, sensitive woman, ended up in this broken, angry and uncouth family. Yet she's there, and her performance is moving.

Filmed in black and white - the only way, back then, a movie like this should be - Zinnemann's on-location shooting captures New York City as the turn from 1950s sparkle to 1970s urban jungle was beginning. It's a better look at the city at that moment than most documentaries.

A Hatful of Rain, despite not receiving a lot of attention today, remains a poignant exploration of the complexities of addiction and the debilitating ripple effects it has on family and identity.

While it may not be easy to watch, its unflinching portrayal of these struggles ensures that it will resonate just as powerfully today as it did in 1957.

 

[Fading Fast]

Wise Girl from 1937 with Mariam Hopkins, Ray Milland and Henry Stephenson


If Hallmark had been around in 1937, Wise Girl is the type of movie it would have been making.

A wealthy industrialist, Henry Stephenson, enlists the aid of one of his daughters, Mariam Hopkins, to take the children of his recently deceased daughter away from their Bohemian uncle, Ray Milland.

Stephenson believes his money and position will provide a better upbringing for his grandchildren. Since Milland has legal guardianship, Stephenson sends Hopkins to Milland's Greenwich Village neighborhood to see what dirt she can turn up on the "subversive" uncle.

From here, the story follows a formula Hollywood had used many times before and has been using ever since. It starts when Hopkins, incognito, meets Milland and the two initially rub each other the wrong way, but they really are attracted to each other.

Hopkins then discovers that Milland is really a good guy – a loving parent and a talented, but unemployed artist, who takes a bunch of part-time jobs to make ends meet. She also discovers that the Greenwich Village Bohemians aren't the terrible people rich-girl Hopkins was brought up to believe.

Playing to one of Hollywood's favorite tropes, the Bohemians are all cheerful, sharing, and caring people who live in a kind of commune apartment house where they generously help each other out with money and food: from each, according to his ability, to each....

Having lived in New York City and seen plenty of Bohemian/leftist apartments in the 1980s and 1990s, either Bohemians lived much better and shared more in the 1930s than in those much-more-affluent later time periods, or Hollywood took some license with its view of Depression-era Greenwich Village Bohemian kindness.

Milland and his artist friends also have fun at their impromptu parties, as opposed to Hopkins' socialite friends' parties that are luxurious but boring and catty. This last one is also a favorite fantasy trope of Hollywood that shows up in movies all the time (see 1997's Titanic as an example).

One wonders why all these successful Hollywood writers and directors, who love this story, almost never live it in real life, but instead attend the expensive Hollywood parties, events and balls they always denouce in their stories.

Back in Wise Girl, Hopkins and Milland, after a bunch of mix-ups, start to get close, until a last-minute misunderstanding between Hopkins and Milland, and interference by Stephens, lands Milland in court.

This very Hallmark-like twist has Stephens trying to take custody of the girls from Milland based on innocent information he obtains from Hopkins and then distorts and manipulates to win the case.

After that, it's the Hallmark outcome (spoiler alert) where Hopkins helps Milland get a job as an artist, curmudgeonly Stephenson sees Milland is good with the girls, and Milland sees that Hopkins and her dad aren't really bad people.

It's a Hallmark fairy tale before there was Hallmark, but also a story Hollywood loves telling. It's a cute formula that aligns with Hollywood's politics, so it seems it will always be with us.

Wise Girl is neither a particularly good nor bad version of this formula; plus it's fun to see a very young Ray Milland right before his career took off.

 

[katznkitz]

View attachment 576158
Hell's Angels from 1930 with James Hall, Ben Lyon and Jean Harlow


The interwar years saw no lack of anti-war movies with Hell's Angels, co-directed by Howard Hughes, being noted for its still-to-this-day impressive aerial combat scenes.

At just over two hours, it's very long for an early talkie. Not helping are several silent film tics and cluncy production qualities, but it also has an eight-minute two-strip Technicolor sequence, which is impressive for a picture from 1930.

Just before the war, we meet two English brothers, played by Ben Lyon and James Hall, who are good friends with their German roommate at Oxford. Hall is the serious brother, while Lyon is the good-time Charlie with no morals.

Lyon sleeps with brother Hall's girlfriend, played by Jean Harlow, behind his brother's back and even lets his brother fight a duel for him when Lyon is caught cheating with another man's wife. These character traits will not be changed by war.

When war does come, their German friend is drafted into his country's army and Hall enlists in his, but Lyon is all but tricked into joining up. It's the standard but effective moment when good friends have the horrible realization they'll be fighting against each.

Early on, in a moving scene, a German Zeppelin bombs London where the brother's German friend is sacrificed along with other German airmen in a futile attempt to save the airship. The brothers, themselves, are part of the airmen who shoot down the Zeppelin.

Now over in France, Hall distinguishes himself as an airman while Lyon gets labeled yellow for dodging dangerous night duty assignments. He also drinks and sleeps with whores while denouncing the war.

Lyon is not a hero, an intellectual or a formerly gung-ho warrier now denouncing the war - the ploy most anti-war movies take. He's a bit of a louse, but he's also a guy who wants to live, which is his basic excuse for everything bad he does.

It's not ennobling, but it's effective in its own way as it's so believable. He's a regular guy, a guy you know and maybe don't like, who doesn't want to die fighting for a "cause" or to be used as cannon fodder for terms like "patriotism" spouted by people not fighting.

Harlow, too, is unchanged by the war. Now in France as a hostess in an army canteen, she cruelly mocks Hall's love for her as she says bluntly she'd rather get drunk and sleep around.

Harlow, who rarely if ever wore a bra on screen (and, one guesses, off), is so braless in a few scenes, especially in one where she's wearing an evening gown, she comes close to exposing herself. Knowing Hughes' predilections, one senses his hand in these scenes.

In one of those 1930 Hollywood oddities, Hell's Angels turned out to be the only movie in which Harlow, who died in 1937, was filmed in color. In an otherwise black-and-white movie, she's filmed in the aforementioned eight-minute party scene shot in two-strip Technicolor.

After several good aerial scenes, the movie has its most famous one where the boys have volunteered - Hall because he's a hero, Lyon, in a moment of pique, to prove he's no coward - to bomb a German ammo depot in a captured German plane.

If caught in the German plane, they will likely be shot as spies according to the rules of war. The climax, no spoilers coming, takes a few twists, but effectively says character doesn't change in war and war is hell on almost everyone.

The acting by all three leads is sometimes stilted as none of them have yet to fully drop their silent film mannerisms and embrace the more-natural style of the "talkies." Still, Harlow's star qualities show as, when she's in a scene, you can't not watch her.

These "between the war" anti-war movies helped to educate the public to the horrors the men endured fighting. Hell's Angels, as opposed to some, doesn't become sanctimonious as its anti-war hero is a weak man, but there's value in that honesty.

These movies are correct about their anti-war points, but none of them have ever solved for the one unanswerable challenge to the anti-war ideal: how do you stop the Hitlers or Putins of the world without fighting, without war, without having men, and now women, dying?

Hell's Angels is a giant impressive mess of a movie with too many silent film tics, but several incredible aerial combat scenes. Its one most-notable feature, though, is its courage to use a not-likable character to deliver its anti-war message.

View attachment 576159

By any chance can anyone recognize the movie still this painting is depicting?

 

[Fading Fast]

Lonelyhearts from 1958 with Montgomery Clift, Robert Ryan, Dolores Hart, Myrna Loy and Jean Stapleton


Depressing movies make an implicit bargain with the viewer: the story, the moral, the lesson, the artistry, or something - or all of them - will make this sad journey worth the effort. Lonelyhearts is a sad, depressing movie that falls short of upholding its end of the bargain.

That is a shame as it is a smartly written and well-acted picture with several powerful scenes, and characters you care about, but its dispiriting view of marriage is still a slog. It feels even less worth the journey today as few believe they have to stay in a truly failing marriage.

At the open, a young, sensitive and optimistic man, played by Montgomery Clift, gets a job at a newspaper run by a stern man, played by Robert Ryan. Ryan then spends the entire movie not running the paper, but tormenting his new employee along with his, Ryan's, long-suffering wife.

Ryan wraps his torment inside a veneer of philosophizing, but he really just wants to grind all the optimism and caring for others out of Clift.

He also wants to continue punishing his wife, played by Myrna Loy, for an affair she had ten years ago – an affair for which she has now spent ten years apologizing.

Ryan's evil-genius plan is to make Clift "Miss Lonelyhearts," the writer for the paper's "personal advice" column. Clift, who has a dark secret in his past he is hiding from even his nice, kind girlfriend, played by Dolores Hart, was not cut out to face human misery daily.

Everything comes together when Clift - at Ryan's mean-spirited goading - meets one of the letter writers, played by Maureen Stapleton. Clift, who sincerely wants to help all his readers and just accepts their stories as true, is then brutally manipulated by Stapleton.

Stapleton, who was deservedly nominated for an Oscar for her performance, is in a miserable marriage. She and her husband are at war - sometimes passive aggressively, sometimes physically - but Clift becomes a form of collateral damage; although, he isn't an innocent victim.

Poor Dolores Hart, a nice girl from a nice family, finds herself in the middle of a nasty, pointless Machiavellian contest as Clift cracks under the pressure, while Ryan turns the screws tighter. All you can think is, "isn't there a nice boy somewhere Hart could meet to get out of this hell?"

While there's a very late Hollywood ending tacked on, nobody is coming out of this movie feeling good. Audiences were smart enough to see past the last ninety seconds and to get the message: marriages can turn into long prison sentences for both spouses.

Ryan, in a powerful performance, is both a prisoner and jailer. You'll hate him, but you can't stop watching him torment his wife and Clift. Yet somehow, you also feel a bit sorry for him as it's clear he turned his hurt into a weapon that has consumed his humanity. It's acting at its best.

It's not Ryan's fault, but his character is a caricature, as few people could ever devote all their time to tormenting others emotionally to ensure that no one is happy. The man had a newspaper to run, after all. It's also a weakness of the movie, as it often makes it feel stagey and forced.

Loy, as Ryan's suffering wife, is excellent, too, here trying to close the wound that Ryan won't let heal. Loy understands you don't "out muscle" Ryan in a scene, so she underplays her part, which draws your attention to her as an oasis of calm amidst Ryan's nasty anger.

Clift, as Ryan's other antagonist, is too old for the role of a young innocent. Still, he touches you playing pretty much the same character he almost always plays - a man too sensitive for the cruel world we live in. Which leaves us with Ms. Hart, seemingly the only innocent person in the movie.

Hart, who would leave Hollywood in five years for life in a convent, shows she had the acting chops for a long career had she wanted it. Holding her own in scenes with Clift is no big deal - he's a generous actor - but Hart also holds her own with Ryan, which is no small achievement.

Director Vincent J. Donehue filmed his bleak tale in the only way possible, in black and white, as the sun never shines on any of these characters, except Hart's. He also kept the story moving along quickly, but knew when to slow a scene down for maximum effect.

That is also the problem, though, as the "maximum effect" is always someone crushing someone else's hopes, dreams, self esteem or simply that person's ability to struggle through another day.

In 1958, the country was very religious and divorce laws were difficult, so many did stay tramped in awful marriages. Today, when people can easily exit marriages through no-fault divorces and with little or no stigma, it's hard to even understand the suffering in Lonelyhearts.

If you are into movies for the pure talent of the actors and the raw human emotion a movie can capture, and you don't mind seeing demoralizing heartbreak, then Lonelyhearts is for you. But for most of us, the payoff - the message that marriages can be awful - isn't worth the suffering.

 

[Preppy Climber]

View attachment 635855
Lonelyhearts from 1958 with Montgomery Clift, Robert Ryan, Dolores Hart, Myrna Loy and Jean Stapleton


Depressing movies make an implicit bargain with the viewer: the story, the moral, the lesson, the artistry, or something - or all of them - will make this sad journey worth the effort. Lonelyhearts is a sad, depressing movie that falls short of upholding its end of the bargain.

That is a shame as it is a smartly written and well-acted picture with several powerful scenes, and characters you care about, but its dispiriting view of marriage is still a slog. It feels even less worth the journey today as few believe they have to stay in a truly failing marriage.

At the open, a young, sensitive and optimistic man, played by Montgomery Clift, gets a job at a newspaper run by a stern man, played by Robert Ryan. Ryan then spends the entire movie not running the paper, but tormenting his new employee along with his, Ryan's, long-suffering wife.

Ryan wraps his torment inside a veneer of philosophizing, but he really just wants to grind all the optimism and caring for others out of Clift.

He also wants to continue punishing his wife, played by Myrna Loy, for an affair she had ten years ago – an affair for which she has now spent ten years apologizing.

Ryan's evil-genius plan is to make Clift "Miss Lonelyhearts," the writer for the paper's "personal advice" column. Clift, who has a dark secret in his past he is hiding from even his nice, kind girlfriend, played by Dolores Hart, was not cut out to face human misery daily.

Everything comes together when Clift - at Ryan's mean-spirited goading - meets one of the letter writers, played by Maureen Stapleton. Clift, who sincerely wants to help all his readers and just accepts their stories as true, is then brutally manipulated by Stapleton.

Stapleton, who was deservedly nominated for an Oscar for her performance, is in a miserable marriage. She and her husband are at war - sometimes passive aggressively, sometimes physically - but Clift becomes a form of collateral damage; although, he isn't an innocent victim.

Poor Dolores Hart, a nice girl from a nice family, finds herself in the middle of a nasty, pointless Machiavellian contest as Clift cracks under the pressure, while Ryan turns the screws tighter. All you can think is, "isn't there a nice boy somewhere Hart could meet to get out of this hell?"

While there's a very late Hollywood ending tacked on, nobody is coming out of this movie feeling good. Audiences were smart enough to see past the last ninety seconds and to get the message: marriages can turn into long prison sentences for both spouses.

Ryan, in a powerful performance, is both a prisoner and jailer. You'll hate him, but you can't stop watching him torment his wife and Clift. Yet somehow, you also feel a bit sorry for him as it's clear he turned his hurt into a weapon that has consumed his humanity. It's acting at its best.

It's not Ryan's fault, but his character is a caricature, as few people could ever devote all their time to tormenting others emotionally to ensure that no one is happy. The man had a newspaper to run, after all. It's also a weakness of the movie, as it often makes it feel stagey and forced.

Loy, as Ryan's suffering wife, is excellent, too, here trying to close the wound that Ryan won't let heal. Loy understands you don't "out muscle" Ryan in a scene, so she underplays her part, which draws your attention to her as an oasis of calm amidst Ryan's nasty anger.

Clift, as Ryan's other antagonist, is too old for the role of a young innocent. Still, he touches you playing pretty much the same character he almost always plays - a man too sensitive for the cruel world we live in. Which leaves us with Ms. Hart, seemingly the only innocent person in the movie.

Hart, who would leave Hollywood in five years for life in a convent, shows she had the acting chops for a long career had she wanted it. Holding her own in scenes with Clift is no big deal - he's a generous actor - but Hart also holds her own with Ryan, which is no small achievement.

Director Vincent J. Donehue filmed his bleak tale in the only way possible, in black and white, as the sun never shines on any of these characters, except Hart's. He also kept the story moving along quickly, but knew when to slow a scene down for maximum effect.

That is also the problem, though, as the "maximum effect" is always someone crushing someone else's hopes, dreams, self esteem or simply that person's ability to struggle through another day.

In 1958, the country was very religious and divorce laws were difficult, so many did stay tramped in awful marriages. Today, when people can easily exit marriages through no-fault divorces and with little or no stigma, it's hard to even understand the suffering in Lonelyhearts.

If you are into movies for the pure talent of the actors and the raw human emotion a movie can capture, and you don't mind seeing demoralizing heartbreak, then Lonelyhearts is for you. But for most of us, the payoff - the message that marriages can be awful - isn't worth the suffering.

Thank you, @Fading Fast! I enjoyed reading this and your other movie reviews. Most of the films are new to me and your reviews inspire me to watch them!

 

[Fading Fast]

Rebecca from 1940 with Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, Judith Anderson and George Sanders


Rebecca is Hitchcock's first American movie, and he hit it right out of the park translating Daphne Du Maurier's haunting novel to the screen as a suspenseful and foreboding mystery with a cast that would be the envy of any movie maker.

Laurence Olivier plays a wealthy, brooding, and handsome widower who is the owner of "Manderley," a large country estate. Vacationing on the French Riviera, he meets the meek paid companion, played by Joan Fontaine, of a pompous old matron.

Fontaine, showing a bit of grit despite her diffidence, a grit she'll soon need, keeps herself in front of Olivier long enough for him to propose marriage. After a honeymoon, it's off to Manderley for innocent Fontaine and often-moody and withdrawn Olivier.

It's the 1930s, yet Manderley is an out-of-time, lugubrious Gothic mansion overseen by its head housekeeper, the imperious "Mrs. Danvers," played by Judith Anderson.

Anderson's chilling greeting of Fontaine establishes the initial power in their relationship. It's followed by Anderson giving Fontaine an eerie tour of the bedroom – nay, museum– of the "former Mistress of Manderley, Rebecca [Olivier's first wife]."

We don't yet know why Rebecca has such a hold on Manderley, but Olivier's unwillingness to talk about his former wife and Anderson's excessive willingness to talk about her reverently has Fontaine all but hiding in the shadows of her new home.

That is the setup which will, in time, play out as a murder mystery with Olivier becoming a suspect at the reopened murder inquest of his, supposedly, much-beloved wife. Eventually, all of Manderley's and Rebecca's secrets – and there are several – spill out in a gripping climax.

Du Maurier's story is engaging, but as in every Hitchcock movie, it's the way he tells it – from what he gets out of his actors, to his meticulous storyboarding of the entire movie, to the well-chosen details in every shot – that makes it a classic.

The cinematic mood Hitchcock creates with the movie's brooding black-and-white shadows and panning shots of a fog-shrouded Manderley, plus the creepy 'closeness' of Manderley’s corners and the lonely emptiness of its large halls, all visually emphasize the ominously Gothic feel of the picture.

Brooding Olivier, too, contributes to the eeriness of Manderley and the movie's foreboding vibe. While he gives a strong performance, it is also a version of the same angry, handsome man Olivier played many times at this stage of his career.

Much attention is also rightfully focused on Anderson's performance as the overbearing head housekeeper, way too devoted to her dead mistress.

Everything pivots around her as we never see, even in flashbacks, the dead Rebecca – we do see a painting of her, however. Anderson, though, has turned Manderley into Rebecca's shrine – a shrine which is part of the reason why Olivier can't fully embrace his new bride.

Anderson relentlessly preys on mousey and insecure Fontaine, trying to drive her away or, worse, to commit suicide (in a brutally chilling scene). Yet, Anderson's career bravura wouldn't be as effective without Fontaine's less-showy but equally impressive performance.

Fontaine perfectly portrays a young girl who, by marriage, stepped far up in class and wealth. Even with all the help in the world, she would have struggled to be "Mistress of Manderley." Anderson, though, has no intention of giving her any help at all.

Watching Fontaine drop her eyes, cower in the shadows and pull in her shoulders at Anderson's passive-aggressive dominance is subtle acting at its best. If Fontaine could have disappeared into the carpet, she would have. But when crucial, Fontaine rises to the challenge.

She knows she has to find that earlier grit she showed to fight for her marriage and, finally, for her husband's life. Olivier chose much better than he imagined when he married a timid girl who later proves to have a surprisingly steely backbone.

Rebecca is also helped along by George Sanders playing, once again, a slimy polished schemer who, like his ally Anderson, thinks he can easily cow nervous Fontaine. He provides a needed spark just as this long movie is about to flag a bit.

Reginald Denny as Manderley's overseer and Olivier's and Fontaine's loyal friend, and C. Aubrey Smith, playing to his long-established acting brand as the very English police inspector, help round out a talented cast.

Almost every Hitchcock movie is really a love story wrapped inside a mystery. Rebecca is no different. All the harrowing moments driven by the baleful shadow of a dead woman are just obstacles for Fontaine to overcome if her and Olivier's love story is to have a happy ending.

Rightfully considered one of Hitchcock's best, Rebecca has aged well in part because it feels of no real time or place. Yes, it's set in then present-day 1930s, but its intensely Gothic atmosphere gives it an otherworldly vibe, making it a timeless, almost allegorical tale.

 

[Julian Shellhammer]

View attachment 636958
Rebecca from 1940 with Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, Judith Anderson and George Sanders


Rebecca is Hitchcock's first American movie, and he hit it right out of the park translating Daphne Du Maurier's haunting novel to the screen as a suspenseful and foreboding mystery with a cast that would be the envy of any movie maker.

Laurence Olivier plays a wealthy, brooding, and handsome widower who is the owner of "Manderley," a large country estate. Vacationing on the French Riviera, he meets the meek paid companion, played by Joan Fontaine, of a pompous old matron.

Fontaine, showing a bit of grit despite her diffidence, a grit she'll soon need, keeps herself in front of Olivier long enough for him to propose marriage. After a honeymoon, it's off to Manderley for innocent Fontaine and often-moody and withdrawn Olivier.

It's the 1930s, yet Manderley is an out-of-time, lugubrious Gothic mansion overseen by its head housekeeper, the imperious "Mrs. Danvers," played by Judith Anderson.

Anderson's chilling greeting of Fontaine establishes the initial power in their relationship. It's followed by Anderson giving Fontaine an eerie tour of the bedroom – nay, museum– of the "former Mistress of Manderley, Rebecca [Olivier's first wife]."

We don't yet know why Rebecca has such a hold on Manderley, but Olivier's unwillingness to talk about his former wife and Anderson's excessive willingness to talk about her reverently has Fontaine all but hiding in the shadows of her new home.

That is the setup which will, in time, play out as a murder mystery with Olivier becoming a suspect at the reopened murder inquest of his, supposedly, much-beloved wife. Eventually, all of Manderley's and Rebecca's secrets – and there are several – spill out in a gripping climax.

Du Maurier's story is engaging, but as in every Hitchcock movie, it's the way he tells it – from what he gets out of his actors, to his meticulous storyboarding of the entire movie, to the well-chosen details in every shot – that makes it a classic.

The cinematic mood Hitchcock creates with the movie's brooding black-and-white shadows and panning shots of a fog-shrouded Manderley, plus the creepy 'closeness' of Manderley’s corners and the lonely emptiness of its large halls, all visually emphasize the ominously Gothic feel of the picture.

Brooding Olivier, too, contributes to the eeriness of Manderley and the movie's foreboding vibe. While he gives a strong performance, it is also a version of the same angry, handsome man Olivier played many times at this stage of his career.

Much attention is also rightfully focused on Anderson's performance as the overbearing head housekeeper, way too devoted to her dead mistress.

Everything pivots around her as we never see, even in flashbacks, the dead Rebecca – we do see a painting of her, however. Anderson, though, has turned Manderley into Rebecca's shrine – a shrine which is part of the reason why Olivier can't fully embrace his new bride.

Anderson relentlessly preys on mousey and insecure Fontaine, trying to drive her away or, worse, to commit suicide (in a brutally chilling scene). Yet, Anderson's career bravura wouldn't be as effective without Fontaine's less-showy but equally impressive performance.

Fontaine perfectly portrays a young girl who, by marriage, stepped far up in class and wealth. Even with all the help in the world, she would have struggled to be "Mistress of Manderley." Anderson, though, has no intention of giving her any help at all.

Watching Fontaine drop her eyes, cower in the shadows and pull in her shoulders at Anderson's passive-aggressive dominance is subtle acting at its best. If Fontaine could have disappeared into the carpet, she would have. But when crucial, Fontaine rises to the challenge.

She knows she has to find that earlier grit she showed to fight for her marriage and, finally, for her husband's life. Olivier chose much better than he imagined when he married a timid girl who later proves to have a surprisingly steely backbone.

Rebecca is also helped along by George Sanders playing, once again, a slimy polished schemer who, like his ally Anderson, thinks he can easily cow nervous Fontaine. He provides a needed spark just as this long movie is about to flag a bit.

Reginald Denny as Manderley's overseer and Olivier's and Fontaine's loyal friend, and C. Aubrey Smith, playing to his long-established acting brand as the very English police inspector, help round out a talented cast.

Almost every Hitchcock movie is really a love story wrapped inside a mystery. Rebecca is no different. All the harrowing moments driven by the baleful shadow of a dead woman are just obstacles for Fontaine to overcome if her and Olivier's love story is to have a happy ending.

Rightfully considered one of Hitchcock's best, Rebecca has aged well in part because it feels of no real time or place. Yes, it's set in then present-day 1930s, but its intensely Gothic atmosphere gives it an otherworldly vibe, making it a timeless, almost allegorical tale.

FF, have you read the novel? It was the subject of one of our read-alouds some years back.

 

[Fading Fast]

FF, have you read the novel? It was the subject of one of our read-alouds some years back.

I don't think so, unless I did decades ago and forgot it. I didn't love du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn," so I've shied away from her novels ever since. Maybe I should give her another shot as I've enjoyed several of the movies that have been based on her books.

 

[Fading Fast]

Cottage to Let (also known as Bombsight Stolen) from 1942 with Leslie Banks, Alastair Sim, John Mills, George Cole, Carla Lehman, Michael Wilding and Catherine Lacey


Despite being back on their heels in 1941, the British still produced a number of high-quality wartime propaganda movies like Cottage to Let, where German and British spies, an inventor, an evacuee, a pretty nurse, and some off-beat Brits converge in a humorous, then nail-biting spy drama.

With a lot of characters and a lot of story, it gets a bit confusing but never boring, as the acting is first-rate, the restored black-and-white cinematography is incredibly crisp, and the directing by Anthony Asquith, channeling Hitchcock, keeps the scenes and story seamlessly moving along.

At a high level, it's the tale of a quirky but brilliant upper-class inventor, played by Leslie Banks, working at his Scottish estate because he's unwilling to work in a secure military facility. This creates an opportunity for German spies to steal his secrets and maybe even Banks himself.

Other than the estate having a "rule" that only Banks or his research assistant, played by Michael Wilding, can go into the lab, there is no security. This is a problem as Banks' flighty wife has strange people coming and going, especially since she rented out a cottage on the estate.

Presently at the cottage, there is a just-downed RAF pilot, played by John Mills, recovering from injuries; an odd short-term tenant, played by Alastair Sim; and a London evacuee teenage boy, played by George Cole, who ends up staying in the main house.

The British Government, desperate for Banks to finish his crucial new bombsight, understands the risks, so it sends in an undercover man, but it appears, so have the Germans – it's a quite crowded country estate, busy with several people incognito.

Kicking up the sexual vibe is Banks' pretty daughter, played by Carla Lehmann, acting as Mills' nurse. Both Wilding and Mills pursue her romantically, which could eventually see Lehmann pulled in opposite geopolitical directions. It's all slap-and-tickle fun until the Nazis get involved.

With that setup, the story is a blend of humor and spy intrigue as the chaos of the estate and Banks' nonchalant attitude toward security, plus the incredible talent of the cast create several humorous situations. Slowly, though, the movie gives way to being more of a spy drama.

Eventually, it has a Hitchcock-like climax with Nazi spies seeming to have the upper hand as their methodical evil wins the early rounds against British fair play and goodwill. Of course, though, the Brits prove resourceful when back on their heels. It is a propaganda movie, after all.

The acting talent is impressive. Banks is outstanding as the somewhat unaware brilliant inventor, but he is wonderfully humanized in his scenes with Cole, playing a cocky but good-hearted cockney kid who shares Bank's passion for Sherlock Holmes.

The two work so well together in their scenes where they try to channel Sherlock Holmes to solve problems or to get them out of jams that had the cinematic fates aligned, they could have become an acting team playing the same characters in a series of similar movies.

It is Sim, though, as happens often in movies he's in, who takes over the picture playing the, at first, irritating tenant and, then, maybe a German or perhaps an English spy. Sim's later scenes are an acting class as he owns each one of them with his quirky looks and outsized talent.

Mills, Wilding and Lehmann also show the deep acting bench tiny England had to call upon for its movie industry back then as the three create intriguing characters whom you care about. Catherine Lacey, too, deserves mention playing a ruthless German spy.

The British back then had a talent for making high-quality low-budget movies driven by smart stories, quality acting, skilled directing, and beautiful black-and-white cinematography. Green for Danger and Went the Day Well are just two more examples of many.

While Hollywood, at the same time, was putting out big-budget spectacles like Mrs. Miniver and Saboteur, both excellent movies, the British made equally effective movies, just on a smaller scale.

There is a style, a vibe, a feel, or some special British ingredient that all these movies have that makes them humorous yet serious war-time dramas. Also, they almost all have complex, engaging stories and characters you come to care deeply about.

Because of their impressive quality, most of these wartime propaganda movies, like Cottage to Let, have aged incredibly well.

 

[Fading Fast]

Platinum Blonde from 1931 with Robert Williams, Jean Harlow, Loretta Young and Louise Closser Hale


Platinum Blonde's story of a middle-class "nobody" marrying a socialite is an early version of a tale Hollywood told repeatedly in the 1930s because it contains one of Tinseltown's favorite tropes: "the rich" are stupid and mean, and "the poor" are smart and kind.

Robert Williams plays the cynical, whip-smart, and cocky reporter – a 1930s stock character, think Lee Tracy – who, while investigating a story, meets a wealthy and socially prominent family with a pretty young daughter, played by Jean Harlow.

Harlow is attracted to Williams because he isn't like her stuffy society boyfriends. They soon marry, despite the family's objections, especially the objections of Harlow's status-conscious mother, played with perfect superciliousness by Louise Closser Hale.

Once married, however, in another standard plot twist for this type of story, Harlow wants to change Williams into a society husband. He, though, wants them to live on his respectable middle-class salary in his modest apartment, but she won't.

The "second act" is all boilerplate stuff: Harlow pushes Williams to quit his job and "join society," but he tries to maintain his identity and independence, while somehow accommodating his wife. Meanwhile, her family tries to break up the marriage.

Rounding out the cast, Reginald Owen plays the exaggeratedly stuffy lawyer for the family who consistently gets outwitted by Williams, while lovely Loretta Young plays the innocent poor girl reporter who quietly pines away for her "old friend" and coworker Williams.

Williams, with Young's help, begins writing a play, which is just a roman à clef of his own marriage. The dream of every newspaperman of this era is to write a play or a novel, become rich and famous, and quit the business.

The climax is precipitated when Williams' "lowbrow" friends come over one night to the family mansion to party, while everyone but Williams is out. In another perennial Hollywood trope, they have genuine fun versus the family's "parties" which are stuffy and boring.

These stories have only two types of conclusions where, after the man declares his independence from his wife and family, the wife either now agrees to live in his world and on his salary or the man discovers he truly loves the poor girl (Young in this case).

This blunt and simple morality tale is right up director Frank Capra's alley as subtlety and nuance are not his metier. He loved a black-and-white world where the "downtrodden" are good and honest people and "the rich" are deceitful and selfish.

Once you become familiar with this standard Hollywood framework, you'll notice that it probably won't conform to your own experiences: Have you found all poor people to be kind and selfless souls and all wealthy people to be heartless and cruel?

For fans of 1997's Titanic movie, you can see that, channeling his inner Capra, all director James Cameron did was use the famous ocean liner's tragic journey as a construct to tell this hackneyed “the rich are bad and the poor are good" story anew.

Sadly, Robert Williams, who gives a spirited performance in this one, died from the effects of a burst appendix four days after the movie's release. As a result, his all of a sudden promising career was cut short.

Harlow, who would also die young in 1937, is miscast here. Nothing about the talented young actress says society girl. Harlow's charm is her commonness, her honest brassiness. Eventually, Hollywood would figure this out and her career would take off.

Platinum Blonde, with its talented cast and Capra's obvious but skilled approach to the story, rises a bit above its clichéd plot even with its early talkie clunkiness. Plus it's an opportunity to see Harlow early in her career and Robert Williams in one of his few talking pictures.

 

[Julian Shellhammer]

A brief account of recent viewings at the Grand Ol' Shellhammer Bijou-

Rocky Mountain - Errol Flynn leads a band of Confederate soldiers towards California with the aim of setting up a second front for the South. Their rendezvous is somewhere in Nevada. During their wait, there is a capture of a cavalry patrol, some internal squabbling, and hostilities with the Shoshone tribe. Wonderful location scenes, and Flynn is less athletic and rascally, here acting world- and war-weary.

The Cabin in the Cotton - Richard Barthelmess is caught between cotton plantation owners and cotton plantation tenants, the former which is unjustly treating the latter regarding earnings, supplies, and so on. Bette Davis is the plantation owner's daughter who has her eye on Barthelmess, and uses their relationship to keep him a minion of the plantation bosses.

(...mumbling rapidly, then dashing out the door-) part of a Hallmark Christmas rom-com, B & B Merry, where a big city professional woman ends up in the world's most-holiday-centric decorated small town and meets a hunky local guy; we're at about the part where they internally begin to admit they are attracted to each other.

 

[Julian Shellhammer]

Crime School (1938) with Humphrey Bogart as an upright deputy commissioner for the state's reform school department, and the Dead End Kids as tough and slangy victims of urban poverty. Most of their home lives are wrecks of alcoholism, crime, and unemployment. Sent to reform school, we meet a corrupt system run by the administration to line their own pockets with state funds, whose policy is to treat the juveniles in their "care" as little more than animals to treat brutally. Bogart takes over and cleans up the system.

The Burmese Harp (1956) This film has been reviewed numerous times over the years on TFL; if you haven't seen it, it is a moving, thoroughly human story of a Japanese soldier who takes up the task of burying the dead soldiers in the aftermath of Japan's surrender. Music and song play a large part of the story. Some scenes of hundreds of soldiers forming up to return home are impressive in their size and scope.

 

[Fading Fast]

One Hour with You from 1932 with Maurice Chevalier, Jeanette MacDonald, Genevieve Tobin, Roland Young and Charles Ruggle


"In Switzerland we have a very peculiar law. If a husband shoots his wife, we put him in jail."
- Roland Young lamenting the law as he contemplates his philandering wife


In the 1950s, battle-of-the sexes movies had a moment. These silly and harmless romcoms were about a woman "trapping" a man into marriage, a man trying to get the fun part of marriage without the license, or even a married couple philandering a bit.

Like everything in Hollywood, these were not new ideas. Back in the 1930s (and the silent era, too), Tinseltown was already churning out similarly themed pictures such as the light-hearted Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald offering One Hour with You.

Chevalier and MacDonald play a young, wealthy married French couple who clearly love each other. Trouble starts, though, when MacDonald's best friend, played by Genevieve Tobin, returns from the country to Paris to be with her husband, played by Roland Young.

Tobin is an über flirt who goes after Chevalier hard, but he, truly in love with his wife, resists as much as any man pursued aggressively by a pretty woman can. To balance things out, Charles Ruggles plays a man pursuing MacDonald.

Most of the movie is silly misunderstandings, silly but usually failed assignation attempts, silly dinner parties, silly dances and silly conversations packed with silly double entendres. This is the stock-in-trade of battle-of-the-sexes movies.

Directors Ernst Lubitsch and George Cukor also sprinkle in a lot of songs to help move their picture's thin plot along. The tunes, popish in their day, have held up pretty well as cheery ditties where Chevalier, in particular, gets to sing his thoughts in verse.

The setting is Depression Era fantasy where a doctor, Chevalier, lives in a mansion, but hardly seems to work. Even Young, playing a professor, has a luxurious lifestyle allowing him to keep his wife in furs and jewelry.

It is all shot at Paramount Studios on stunning Art Deco sets and studio-designed "Parisian streets" that are prettier than almost any real Art Deco home or Parisian thoroughfare.

Adding to the sense of whimsy, Chevalier, now and then, breaks the fourth wall and addresses the audience directly about his woes – further telling us that none of this is to be taken too seriously.

This movie only works if you can get into the spirit of it. Chevalier and MacDonald help it along simply by being adorable together or apart. Wearing slinky dresses and no undergarments, MacDonald looks great while showing a real talent for comedy.

Tobin is excellent as the exaggerated flirt who seems willing to have sex with anyone. Ruggles, though, is a bit wooden as MacDonald's potential paramour. It's Young, however, as the almost bemused cuckold, who steals scenes with his trademark deadpan delivery.

One Hour with You could have been remade in the 1950s with that era's reigning battle-of-the-sexes stars Doris Day and Rock Hudson. It would have been hard, though, for even that appealing couple to have outdone Chevalier and MacDonald with this frivolously fun material.


N.B. Jennifer Aniston and Winona Ryder's 'big deal' kiss on Friends in 2001 was nothing new—very little is. Jeanette MacDonald and Genevieve Tobin had already beaten them to it by sixty-nine years in One Hour with You.

 

[Fading Fast]

Seven Days... Seven Nights from 1960, a French film


It is not hard to understand why a pretty, young mother would be deeply bored with her opulent life married to a cold, middle-aged industrialist and stuck in a dreary factory town with no similar women to befriend and nothing, not one thing to do all day.

But it takes a Paris intellectual like Marguerite Duras, author of the novel on which Seven Days... Seven Nights is based, to turn the situation into such a deep, personal existential crisis that the young mother would identify with a female murder victim she sees at a crime scene.

A normal person would realize they had made a bad marriage, but not feel a meaningful connection to an anonymous dead person. Yet a French existentialist, channeling her inner Sartre, is able to see her existence reflected in the lifeless body of the murder victim.

The young wife, played by Jeanne Moreau, obsesses about the murder, so much that she visits the scene of the crime – which is nearby to where she takes her adolescent son for piano lessons – several times. There she meets a young man, played by Jean-Paul Belmondo.

Belmondo, a worker in Moreau's husband's factory, seems depressed by life in a similar way to Moreau, but with maybe a flicker more of hope than she has. He also, for some reason, has a lot of free time to walk around and do nothing – for a man with a job.

To appreciate what happens from here, you have to appreciate the French existential gestalt of all this as most of the movie is Moreau just walking around the town, its parks, and woods by herself or with her son – sometimes with Belmondo, and sometimes not.

Director Peter Brook set all this walking around in a dreary-looking town with a dreary-looking park and a dreary-looking surrounding woods made drearier by the heavy feel of the black-and-white cinematography. It all looks like a sad daguerreotype photograph hanging in a museum.

This stark black-and-white visual deepens the film's sense of isolation and existential gloom, with its many shadows and bleak landscape reinforcing the emotional detachment of the characters.

If you didn't have an existential issue coming into the movie, you might leave with one as all Moreau and Belomondo do while walking around is talk in circles about the murder victim or their lives in an often obfuscating but depressing way.

They do make an interesting visual contrast, though. Moreau is beautifully dressed and impeccably groomed, while Belomondo is a bit scruffy and lugubrious in his heavy dark raglan wool overcoat. Both, though, have a deeply dispirited mien that cast a pall over the entire movie.

Yet there is oddly something captivating about all this mundane sadness dressed up as a philosophical work of art. You feel Moreau's loneliness in a profound way. A well-dressed and well-coiffed woman walking around a bleak landscape does look lost, small, and hopelessly sad.

In the climax, and that is being generous to a modest story arc that never travels very far, Moreau walks out of a fancy dinner party she and her husband are giving for the few other wealthy people in this town, so that she can, once again, visit the murder scene and Belmondo.

Being an artsy and angsty French film, she and Belmondo, who have a tiny sexual spark between them, never take it anywhere mainly because they both seem too depressed to get up the energy to have sex. Instead, they enjoy just looking and feeling sad, apart or together.

There is a final scene that ever so slightly wraps things up, but the real point of Seven Days... Seven Nights is the deep inner emptiness Moreau and Belmondo feel about life. It's not a stretch to say that Moreau identifies with the dead woman because she feels dead inside.

You can draw more philosophical metaphors - a film major could go to town on them - if you want, and if that's what you enjoy doing, this is the movie for you. For most of us, the movie is more of a time capsule, not of France, but of a style of artsy French cinema from that era.

Today, you'll either enjoy this trip to post-war French existential filmmaking or not, depending on your personal tastes. It has an odd appeal at times, but you really have to be in the mood for an hour and a half of two people unhappily and indirectly exploring the meaning of their existence.

 

[Fading Fast]

The Tattered Dress from 1957 with Jeff Chandler, Jack Carson, Jeanne Crain, Elaine Stewart, George Tobias, Edward Platt, and Edward Arnold


Some B movies are so good, so professionally done, they rise to A-picture status; other Bs, however, are very good movies that stay in their B sandbox, like The Tattered Dress.

One thing that does rise to A-picture status here is Jack Carson's nuanced and incredibly frightening performance as an "affable" small-town sheriff with a fragile ego. It is an ego, when exposed, that reveals the danger of law enforcement concentrated in the hands of one evil man.

Carson usually plays a stock character - a nice, kinda-dumb big guy - but here he gives a career performance in a movie with a surprising number of strong performances, especially for a small-budget, short-runtime effort about the law, ethics, justice and personal values.

A big-time New York City lawyer, known for getting his guilty but wealthy clients off with courtroom skill and legal trickery, played by Jeff Chandler, comes to a small California town to defend a wealthy man charged with killing his trampy wife's either lover or attacker.

The man killed was a local college football hero and the protégé of the small town's sheriff, played by Carson. This becomes a "two-trial" movie as Chandler successfully gets the man off by deboning Carson on the stand, but then Chandler himself is charged with witness tampering.

We quickly learn that Carson, in cahoots with one of the jurors from the first trial, played by Gail Russell, who is Carson's secret girlfriend, is trying to frame Chandler. Carson wants revenge for being made to look the fool on the stand by Chandler.

Chandler, with his world turned upside down as he's now in the role of a defendant, tries desperately to find exonerating evidence. Meanwhile, his estranged wife, played by Jeanne Crain, shows up to support him even though Chandler has been an unfaithful husband.

It becomes a mano-a-mano affair as Carson is out to destroy Chandler any way he can. Chandler quickly realizes that Carson, who framed him via a rigged poker game, controls all the levers of power in this small town.

A lot of violence follows as Carson will stop at nothing to destroy Chandler, while Chandler, like any good defense attorney, has endless reserves of fight in him. The battle jumps the shark a few times, but still, it's an engaging bar-room-brawl taking place in and out of the courtroom.

It's also another entry in the long list of movies about corrupt law officers who don't serve their community, but rule it with an iron grip. The twist here is that Carson is so good at playing a humble and likable guy that few ever realize he has an iron fist.

For a B movie, the performances are impressive. Russell is outstanding as Carson's conflicted partner. A pivotal scene in the second trial, where she, as a witness, withstands Chandler's withering attacks, could be taught in acting school.

Elaine Stewart, playing the trampy wife with a body that won't quit and that she won't let you ignore, is more than just eye candy. Unfortunately, Jeanne Crain, a talented actress, isn't given much to do here but look good in tight-fitting dresses and "support her man."

George Tobias, as Chandler's loyal friend, Edward Platt, as a newspaperman who plays Chandler's conscience, and Edward Arnold, as a smarmy high-priced attorney, all show why they had long and successful careers as supporting actors.

Chandler, too, justifies his successful career here, having to run a range of emotions from self-satisfied bigwig attorney to a humbled and frightened man looking at everything he built being torn down by someone he thought of as a local buffoon.

But it is Carson who walks away with the movie. He's so good at playing the affable sheriff that even after you know he's evil, his aw-shucks act almost sucks you in. He flips back and forth between his two personas with an impressive ease and believability. The man is an actor.

The Tattered Dress has a lot to say about legal ethics - it doesn't like lawyers who manipulate the system to get wealthy, guilty clients off and it loves pro-bono work for one of Hollywood's favorite victims, the falsely convicted man - but it says nothing controversial or original.

The challenging slant in this one is that Chandler is not a likeable guy, but he plays within the law. Yes, he manipulates the justice system for his own selfish advantage – to make money by getting rich clients off – but that is a moral, not legal corruption.

When Chandler then finds himself a defendant, we, the audience, are forced to look hard at our own convictions. We don't much like Chandler, but we dislike corrupt sheriffs and men being framed even less. It takes us into the wonderful gray area of morality, where life gets interesting.

Shot in black and white and on a small budget, director Jack Arnold assembled a surprisingly strong cast that made this good, but not great courtroom drama story an enjoyable and, at times, gripping B movie, because the actors create compelling characters you care about.

Coming toward the end of the peak of the mid-1950s crime-drama movie rage, and just as the low-budget storytelling baton was about to be passed to TV, The Tattered Dress shows that the genre still had some creative fuel in the tank.

 

[Julian Shellhammer]

Spanning the spectrum from A to M, a hasty recap of film-watching at stately Shellhammer Manor-

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) directed and co-screen play by John Huston, with towering Sterling Hayden as a small-time "hooligan," Louis Calhern as a self-assured, urbane lawyer with criminals as his main income stream, Sam Jaffee as Doc Riedenschneider, the just out of prison mastermind of the big time heist, Jean Hagen as Doll Conovan, who clearly wishes for a committed relationship with Hayden, and the always entertaining Marc Lawrence as Cobby, the bookie who talks tough but is prone to fear-induced perspiration when things get dangerous. Noir as all get-out, we see Doc assemble his crew, procure funding, and lay out the detailed plan, then follow the unfolding of said plan.
Film nerd alert: if this was intentional, it was pulled off perfectly: as the opening credits roll against a wide brick open space stretching up and away from us towards a line of warehouses, etc., from our left a police car rolls into view in the middle distance, behind the text, and when the last words fade out the car is seen perfectly in the middle of the screen.

Then it was three of the Peter Lorre Mr. Moto movies, beginning with Think Fast, Mr. Moto (1937), Thank You, Mr. Moto (1937), and Mr. Moto Takes a Chance (made in 1937 but released in 1938). Having exhausted the supply of Charlie Chan DVDs, it was a natural segue into this detective series. The Moto character presents a humble diffidence, but in all three stories so far he kills some bad guys quite ruthlessly (stabbing, choking, throwing off an ocean liner). Lorre solves crimes while appearing to be a representative of an importation company. Each movie so far has him in heavy disguise while investigating jewels, etc. It is always clear it is Lorre, his distinctive voice unmissable even with a disguised "accent."
Were the productions classy B movies, or near the lower end of an A release? For what they were, they entertained the ticket buyers.
NB: In the first entry Moto travels to Shanghai in search of some valuables. Produced and released in 1937, China by that time had been the victim of an aggressor Japan since about 1931 (re: Mukden Incident). Would a Japanese national be treated as respectfully by Chinese police and government officials as was Moto?

 

[Fading Fast]

Spanning the spectrum from A to M, a hasty recap of film-watching at stately Shellhammer Manor-

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) directed and co-screen play by John Huston, with towering Sterling Hayden as a small-time "hooligan," Louis Calhern as a self-assured, urbane lawyer with criminals as his main income stream, Sam Jaffee as Doc Riedenschneider, the just out of prison mastermind of the big time heist, Jean Hagen as Doll Conovan, who clearly wishes for a committed relationship with Hayden, and the always entertaining Marc Lawrence as Cobby, the bookie who talks tough but is prone to fear-induced perspiration when things get dangerous. Noir as all get-out, we see Doc assemble his crew, procure funding, and lay out the detailed plan, then follow the unfolding of said plan.
Film nerd alert: if this was intentional, it was pulled off perfectly: as the opening credits roll against a wide brick open space stretching up and away from us towards a line of warehouses, etc., from our left a police car rolls into view in the middle distance, behind the text, and when the last words fade out the car is seen perfectly in the middle of the screen.

Then it was three of the Peter Lorre Mr. Moto movies, beginning with Think Fast, Mr. Moto (1937), Thank You, Mr. Moto (1937), and Mr. Moto Takes a Chance (made in 1937 but released in 1938). Having exhausted the supply of Charlie Chan DVDs, it was a natural segue into this detective series. The Moto character presents a humble diffidence, but in all three stories so far he kills some bad guys quite ruthlessly (stabbing, choking, throwing off an ocean liner). Lorre solves crimes while appearing to be a representative of an importation company. Each movie so far has him in heavy disguise while investigating jewels, etc. It is always clear it is Lorre, his distinctive voice unmissable even with a disguised "accent."
Were the productions classy B movies, or near the lower end of an A release? For what they were, they entertained the ticket buyers.
NB: In the first entry Moto travels to Shanghai in search of some valuables. Produced and released in 1937, China by that time had been the victim of an aggressor Japan since about 1931 (re: Mukden Incident). Would a Japanese national be treated as respectfully by Chinese police and government officials as was Moto?

I can't say enough good things about "The Asphalt Jungle." It is a top-five noir for me. It even has Marilyn in a minor role before she became a break-out star.

I've read at least one of the "Mr. Moto" books, which surprisingly, was written by John P. Marquand who also wrote some very well received novels about the Wasp culture in that era. The man was a prolific and expansive writer.