When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
Small Engine Repair (USA 2021) (2): Three tough guys—Frank, Terence, and Patrick—friends since childhood, get together for a night of drinking, barbecuing, and bullshitting when the festivities are interrupted by the arrival of college senior, Chad, who was invited by alpha male Frank (John Pollono who also wrote and directed). Supposedly there to deliver a packet of party drugs, Chad is welcomed into the fold but as the evening wears on it becomes apparent that Frank has another, darker reason for inviting the young man—one that will get his friends involved in a deadly night of mind games and violence. Pollono adapts his stage play for the screen and the result is a heavy-handed sermon featuring a cast of obnoxious working class clichés and an equally obnoxious privileged preppie cliché. Fists and F-bombs fly with equal zeal while meathead humour attempts to fill in the cracks (Patrick turns out to be an overly sensitive wuss, Terrence thinks with his dick) and women make a cursory appearance in the form of Frank’s ball-busting ex and his whiny foul-mouthed teenaged daughter. But when the reason for Frank’s scheming is finally revealed (a clumsy twist that will shock no one) the film suddenly takes on a smug moral superiority of the “two wrongs actually do make a right” variety aimed squarely at the vigilante justice crowd. The thin plot hinges on two people who should have known better making stupid choices yet Pollono insists his audience gush over one while demonizing the other and he does so by using every weepy trick in the book including a closing heart-tug so trite it almost parodied itself. Manipulative and two-dimensional with thoroughly unlikable characters, even the director’s attempts to introduce a degree of moral ambiguity to the mix—outrage is laced with hypocrisy, guilt hides behind bravado—fail to reach any emotional depth.
Victim (UK 1961) (9): Married, but very closeted lawyer Melville Farr (Dirk Bogarde) places his marriage and career in jeopardy when he decides to hunt down a blackmailer who’s been targeting affluent gay men demanding they either pay up or face ruination by being publicly outed. Alienating himself from both his adoring wife and London’s underground gay community who’d rather remain safely anonymous than stand up for themselves, Farr eventually finds an unlikely ally in a local police chief. Released six years before England’s draconian laws against homosexuality were officially overturned, director Basil Dearden’s damning social critique was very controversial for its sympathetic portrayal of gay men as the true victims of the story. With their choices limited to either skulking in the shadows and paying off extortionists (“gay blackmail” was very lucrative at the time) or facing prison terms it’s little wonder that much of the UK’s overt homophobia became internalized—watching the film’s gay characters squirm and cower while liberal-minded folk take pity on their “disorder” may seem horribly condescending by today’s standards but it was groundbreaking back then and played a pivotal role in changing attitudes even though the film itself received only a limited release at first—along with an “X” rating from the censors(?!). A tense and often despairing drama in which one brave soul pits himself against a very ugly mindset (some of the anti-homosexual slurs proved to be too much even for the puritanical BBFC). And the fact that Bogarde himself was in the closet makes his standout performance all the more poignant.
Evelyn Prentice (USA 1934) (7): Feeling neglected due to her husband’s frequent absences, the wife of a prominent Manhattan attorney falls for the charms of an unscrupulous Lothario. Determined to call off the budding acquaintance before things go too far she instead winds up becoming involved in blackmail…and murder! With the star power and onscreen chemistry of Myrna Loy (the wife) and William Powell (the husband) this tense domestic drama—equal parts psychological nail-biter and courtroom showdown—rises above its occasional melodramatic moments to give us a story that is both dated and yet surprisingly contemporary at the same time as it skirts issues of misogyny, extramarital temptation, and sexual politics. Powell and Loy are perfectly paired, as usual, and a strong supporting cast keep the film rolling especially Una Merkel as Loy’s pragmatic BFF and a young Rosalind Russell making her screen debut as a wealthy man-eater who’s set her eye on Powell. Even little seven-year old Shirley Temple wannabe Cora Sue Collins, playing the couple’s adorable daughter, manages to lay on the treacle without becoming too precious.
All My Friends Hate Me (UK 2021) (7): For his 30th birthday Pete’s former university friends have arranged a weekend reunion at a posh country estate. But things head south right from day one when Pete arrives to find the mansion empty and then, when his former mates finally do arrive, the head games start with veiled insults and offhand comments which lead the already neurotic birthday boy to suspect he’s the butt of an enormous inside joke. And what’s with “Harry”, the stranger his buddies invited to join in the festivities? With the group’s forced bonhomie wearing thin and Harry’s odd behaviour becoming increasingly sinister, Pete’s paranoia starts to go through the roof despite the supply of “organic sedatives” he packed. Is there something truly unsavoury afoot or is it all in his head? Director Andrew Gaynord’s psychological horror-comedy looks at social anxiety from the inside out and while the result is less than mind-boggling it certainly gives audiences enough reasons to question reality as objective truths and subjective assumptions get muddled through a haze of wine and party drugs. Pete’s friends certainly seem like an assortment of obnoxious boors as they appear to laugh at him rather than with, and Harry is definitely dodgy as he fixes Pete with a smirk while scribbling secret notes on a pad he keeps in his pocket. But Pete is not exactly stable himself—his discomfort going from vague unease to shrill accusations even after his girlfriend arrives to join the party. It’s a pathological puzzle box of a movie with a script that hops between cruel and banal and a youngish cast who deliver adequate performances especially lead actor Tom Stourton who also co-wrote the script. To his credit however, Gaynord does end the somewhat shaky production on a brilliant note with Pete’s exasperated girlfriend delivering the film’s hilarious coup de grâce.
The Decline of Western Civilization (USA 1981) (7): Before director Penelope Spheeris went on to more commercial things she spent a few months slumming it in L.A.’s punk rock scene resulting in this grungy documentary—part reality TV show, part concert wreckage, and part time capsule. Dividing her attention between live performances and informal interviews with performers and fans alike she definitely gives us a small taste of what it was like. Desensitized by drugs and apathy, gothed-out anarchist wannabes thrash about in mosh pits taking out their frustrations by pounding the shit out of each other while having their eardrums ruptured by bands like X, Black Flag, and The Circle Jerks. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the performers themselves wax ineloquently on their anti-stardom: while Exene from X proudly shows off her wall of religious pamphlets, Darby Crash from Germs gives us an account of all the chemicals he’s ingested while fondling his pet tarantula (he would later commit suicide with a heroin overdose). And recording it all for posterity was the underground rag Slash whose often aggressive editorials earned them both praise and broken noses. But what did it all mean? Was it just another chapter in the Rock and Roll story? Another doomed rebellion as the protest songs of the ‘60s morphed into semi-coherent yelling and poorly tuned guitars? Or was it just so much fashion with its canned rage and Halloween costumes, as plastic in its own way as the disco era which preceded it? Yes and no, depending on who you listen to. Certainly it had its poseurs—in one scene Lee Ving, lead singer for Fear, takes sadistic delight in calling out members of his audience—but in another rather troubling segment a battered and bruised Darby Crash struggles to remain conscious while flailing about on stage. It wasn’t all riot and vandalism however, for these L.A. bands also addressed real issues like angst, alienation, and helplessness in the age of Ronald Reagan. With a shopping list of song titles like “Red Tape”, “Revenge”, “Gluttony”, “Depression”, “We’re Desperate” and “I Don’t Care About You (FUCK YOU!)” they do outline the zeitgeist of the time even if that outline is hastily scribbled and covered in spit.
De Humani Corporis Fabrica [The Fabric of the Human Body] (France 2022) (1): Supposedly inspired by a 16th century treatise on human anatomy this tasteless “documentary” takes its cameras to five hospitals in the greater Paris area to show us doctors and other staff at work. What follows is two hours of medical procedures presented without preamble, context, or any explanation whatsoever while in the background muffled voices spout medical jargon or else gripe about stress and working conditions with one physician going so far as to complain about his inability to achieve an erection. A prostate is removed in bloody detail, a corpse on its way to the mortuary is dressed up in donated clothing, a pair of dementia-addled women shuffle incoherently, and in the lab a pair of pathologists pore over an amputated breast. I suppose, in keeping with the title, we’re expected to glean some understanding of the complexity of both the human body and those we trust to keep ours in working order? Or maybe it’s just a snapshot of daily life (and death) at a medical facility? As someone who actually worked in a hospital setting for 36 years I’d say it failed miserably. Crass and disgustingly voyeuristic, it would seem the directors had no clear goal and no clear plan to achieve it choosing instead to bombard us with poorly edited snips of blood, bones, and gossip. The final nail arrives in the form of a staff farewell party featuring a pornographic mural and spoof of da Vinci’s “Last Supper”—if this was supposed to impart some measure of irony it missed its mark by a mile.
Falcon Lake (Canada 2022) (8): Charlotte Le Bon’s evocative film opens on an idyllic forest scene with sunlight playing across a tranquil lake—until the camera comes to rest on a body floating face down in the water. But when the “body” suddenly kicks and wades to shore you realize that not everything is what it seems thus setting the tone for this nostalgic, seriocomic look at first love…and first heartbreak. Fourteen-year old Sebastian is vacationing at a lakefront cabin in Quebec when he meets sixteen-year old Chloé who proves to be his opposite in every way: his shyness and overall awkwardness contrasting sharply with her sullen sophistication and risk-taking. But over the course of the summer she will guide him through the teenaged underworld of rave parties and underage drinking while at the same time setting his hormones to simmer by her very presence. Chloé is not all she appears to be however, for beneath the bravado and tall tales—she insists the lake is haunted by the spirit of a drowned child—she, like Sebastien, is fumbling towards an adulthood which both mystifies and frightens her. Framed as if they were in a horror film with tight close-ups of the deep dark woods set to a tense musical score, the death-obsessed Chloé is not above donning a ghost costume for shock value nor posing for a series of “post mortem” photographs while Sebastien tries to make sense of his newfound infatuation even as the object of that infatuation drifts away from him. And throughout, all adults in the room are relegated to the periphery. Little wonder that in a movie involving two adolescents on the cusp of growing up a shared bedroom should contain posters for both Hitchcock’s Psycho and Miyazaki’s Spirited Away along with drawings of angels and flowers. In fact it’s these contrasting images of life and death that propel the movie (based on Bastien Vivès graphic novel) towards its quasi-mystical final act, a highly ambiguous sequence sure to divide audiences—is it the end of childhood or just the end? One thing remains certain however, sometimes a lake is not just a lake. A truly haunting film in every way.
Spring in a Small Town (China 1948) (7): Made during the lull between WWII and the Cultural Revolution, director Mu Fei’s bittersweet tale of love and longing is considered by many to be one of the greatest Chinese films ever made. Married to a sickly invalid in a small provincial town, dutiful housewife Yuwen can only dream of a happier existence. And then one of her husband’s former classmates unexpectedly shows up on the doorstep and her life is thrown out of balance, for the handsome young visitor is none other than her former sweetheart Zichen—a man she has never completely forgotten. Now, as long dormant passions begin to reawaken between the former lovers, an emotional three-way entanglement slowly takes shape with no happy resolution in sight…. Mu proves to be a master at conveying inner turmoil using little more than light and body language whether it be a chaste moonlit seduction in a shadowed apartment where downcast eyes and a gutted candle set the tone or a lonely walk along a crumbling wall, itself becoming a metaphor for unfulfilled dreams. And throughout Mu concentrates on doors and windows which are either being thrown open to the sun or shuttered to keep the darkness within. But for all its theatrical touches (a final scene morphs into a Socialist Realism poster) this is a beautifully modest production which compares favourably to the works of Luchino Visconti or Vittorio de Sica. And setting his drama in and around Yuwen’s war-ravaged property gives Mu ample opportunities to draw parallels between physical and psychological damage as the term “broken home” takes on a whole new perspective. Finally, just to provide counterbalance, Yuwen’s giddy sixteen-year old sister-in-law adds a touch of youthful innocence with her wide-eyed zeal and childish (though spot on) rebukes. In the end, Mu’s simple script—told largely in voiceover—and rustic cinematography create something truly noteworthy.
The Workshop (UK 2007) (1): Hungry for spiritual guidance, British filmmaker Jamie Morgan attends a California workshop run by fellow ex-pat Paul Lowe, a place of “healing” where clients doff their duds in order to confront their demons and express their true selves. Eye roll. More New Age psychobabble as Lowe’s charismatic guru convinces a group of emotionally stunted and intellectually naïve acolytes that cheating on your spouse equals freedom, group grope sessions equal intimacy, and becoming an irresponsible self-absorbed prick is a journey to self-discovery. But beneath the staged catharses and childish exhibitionism (look at my tits! look at my tits!) it's the same old recycled Transcendental crap from the '60s complete with touchy-feely sessions and "sound wave therapy". When some members began talking about their encounters with UFO aliens it was game over for me. The only thing missing was the Kool-Aid.
Fill the Void (Israel 2012) (8): As a Hassidic jew living in an orthodox section of Tel Aviv, eighteen-year old Shira (Hadas Yaron, amazing) must balance faith and family with a desire to forge her own way in life—starting with a husband of her choosing. But when her older sister dies in childbirth and her grieving brother-in-law Yochay (an intense Yiftach Klein) decides to take their son to Belgium where a new bride awaits him Shira’s mother, desperate to keep the family intact, pleads with Shira to take her sister’s place and marry Yochay instead. Now caught between obeying her heart and honouring her mother’s wishes Shira is faced with a monumental decision, a decision made even thornier when the older Yochay weighs in…. Writer/director Rama Burshtein’s beautifully minimalist drama does what few movies have ever managed to do, namely immerse audiences in the cloaked world of ultra-orthodox judaism with its anachronistic rituals and strict social observances. Being orthodox herself, Burshtein brings an air of authenticity to Shira’s home: the thousand little segregations between men and women, the crushing rules and unexpected freedoms, and above all the sights and sounds (and singing!) as ancient rites co-exist with pragmatic day-to-day interactions and passions are tempered by tradition and a bit of uncommon sense. Shira is not entirely a victim nor is Yochay a bad guy—quite the opposite in fact as Burshtein casts both in a sympathetic light which balances the naïve young woman’s misgivings against the older man’s own emotional vulnerability—an alcohol-fuelled breakdown is almost pitiable. Tragic in a way, but not without compassion (and a drop of chaste eroticism) right up to that ambiguous ending which leaves you doubting whether or not the right choice was made after all. Raza Israeli co-stars as Shira’s no-nonsense maiden aunt, with Hila Feldman as the sister no one wants and Irit Sheleg as the mother who sees her world falling apart.
Let the Wrong One In (Ireland 2021) (7): Writer/director Conor McMahon has produced an Irish vampire comedy so silly it’s actually quite charming, funny even. Minimum wage earner Matt (Karl Rice) is used to having his estranged brother Deco (Eoin Duffy) show up on mom’s doorstep trying to beg, borrow, or steal anything that will help him support his drug-addled lifestyle. But when the scatterbrained Deco comes sporting a set of fangs and a thirst for blood Matt knows something is amiss. Thanks to a bachelorette party gone horribly wrong Dublin is beset with hordes of the undead who just want to party down and tear the occasional throat out…and with Deco literally climbing the walls and staring hungrily at his neck Matt must make a monumental decision: either help his brother or stake him through the heart. Chockfull of juvenile humour (along with copious amounts of gore) McMahon does for vampires what Edgar Wright did for zombies in 2004’s Shaun of the Dead…namely turn them into sitcom fodder. And for the most part it works with decent special effects to boost those silly sight gags and generous dollops of Irish wit to smooth over the drier moments such as a series of slapstick interactions with a persistent vampire hunter (Anthony Head) which drag on a bit too long. Horror spoofs may be a one-note joke, but McMahon still manages to deliver an entertaining punchline—just be sure to stay through the closing credits (LOL!). David Pearse co-stars as a belligerent neighbour who should have minded his own business and Hilda Fay plays Matt and Deco’s chain-smoking foul-mouthed mother who finds herself the guest of honour at the wrong party.
Child 44 (Czech/USA 2015) (8): in 1953 Moscow the horribly mutilated body of a young child is found near a set of railroad tracks. His parents claim he was murdered but in Stalinist Russia homicide does not officially exist as it is strictly a “western sickness” so despite all evidence to the contrary the death is ultimately ruled accidental. Unable to accept this official verdict, army police officer Leo Demidov (Tom Hardy) begins his own investigation unaware that his inquiries will have serious consequences for both his career and his marriage. And then the number of dead children begins to rise… Filmed in and around Prague with an international cast of stars, director Daniel Espinosa’s adaptation of Tom Rob Smith’s novel is a highly visual melding of Soviet-era chic and smoggy industrial landscapes wherein everyone’s neighbour is a potential informant, the constabulary wields unquestioned power, and anyone deemed to be an enemy of the motherland simply disappears. But those expecting a straightforward communist-style policier will be sorely disappointed for the actual detective portion of the film is perfunctory at best involving a few too many holes and stretches. However, when taken as a character study of one man’s growing disillusionment with a system he had always regarded as above reproach it becomes a fascinating tale of love, loyalty, and honour in a society where truth is treated as a capital offence and individualism falls victim to terrorized conformity. With Demidov seemingly the only character concerned about the killings—his contemporaries being more worried about the effects of a serial killer on their own tenuous positions—Espinosa paints a very dark picture indeed, one that will take his protagonist from the halls of power to a decrepit gulag and back again for a finale brimming with irony and just a touch of human warmth. Gary Oldman co-stars as a career general forced to face an uncomfortable truth, Vincent Cassel is a major unable to face the truth, Joel Kinnaman plays a fellow officer determined to bury the truth, and Noomi Rapace stars as Demidov’s wife who reveals a few torturous truths of her own.
Bachelor Mother (USA 1939) (8): Thanks to a huge misunderstanding at a county foundling home, a recently unemployed store clerk (Ginger Rogers) is mistaken for a single mother and saddled with a new baby—and trying to correct the oversight only makes matters worse. But when her former employer takes pity on her and rehires her she finds that having a baby isn’t entirely that bad, especially after the owner’s dashing son (David Niven) begins taking a personal interest in her welfare… A wonderfully lighthearted screwball comedy featuring great performances all around—Rogers and Niven work well together—and enough madcap nonsense to keep you smiling courtesy of Felix Jackson’s Oscar-nominated screenplay. Highlight include a New Year’s Eve party that unleashes one of the funniest comeback lines to come out of Hollywood, and a climactic confrontation featuring multiple “fathers”, a doting “grandfather”, and one very bewildered “mother”. Great fun!
Roman’s Circuit (Chile 2011) (4): A prominent neuroscientist doing research into how our brains process, store, and occasionally misfile memories literally gets caught up in his own after a series of events blur the boundary between past and present, real and imagined. As he “remembers” things which may or may not have happened (are they even his recollections?) the impact on the present begins to snowball with his career taking different trajectories along with the people in his life. An interesting premise lost in reams of indecipherable techno-jargon and a host of lifeless performances especially Cristián Carvajal as the scientist whose performance consists mainly of brooding stares. Nice visual touches however—a seashore “memory” shows up in the unlikeliest of places and a visit to a Roman amphitheater offers a fitting metaphor for the film’s central enigma as its concentric seating arrangement forms circles within circles—but a few puzzling references to Pinochet suggest a political edge which never really materializes.
Skinamarink (Canada 2022) (5): Five-year old Kaylee and her little brother Kevin find themselves alone in their great big house late one night. Mom and dad are nowhere to be found and the house itself is suddenly all wrong: stuff begins to vanish (starting with the windows), light switches flick on and off, the TV won’t stay quiet, and something is banging on the walls. Wandering from room to room the children try to make sense out of what is happening…and that’s when the voices start. Shot in grainy ultra low resolution like an antique VHS tape, writer/director Kyle Edward Ball’s pint-sized creeper leaves most of its chills to the viewers’ imagination, the movie’s fuzzy static merely suggesting what might be lurking in the corners while off-kilter framing (were the kids filming this themselves?) gives us a succession of mundane images—a stack of lego bricks, a corner of bare ceiling, a patch of carpet, tip-toeing feet—which only gradually assume an air of menace. But what exactly are we watching? A straight-up haunted house story with poltergeists flinging toys about and sticking furniture on the walls? A wholly subjective juvenile nightmare from a little boy who can’t wake up? Or, as I tend to believe, an attempt to recreate those small terrors we all experienced as children wherein monsters under the bed and bogeymen in the closet resolved into everyday items once the lights came on and every innocent nighttime noise suddenly became a ghost? Ball isn’t about to offer any pat answers however choosing instead to confound any attempts at separating what is real and what is a child’s overactive imagination. It certainly looks like that chair is hanging from the ceiling all by itself and that demonic voice lurking just beyond the light definitely sounds solid enough. In this world it is not what may be hiding in the darkness which sparks terror but rather the darkness itself. Unfortunately what could have been a unique short film runs on for far too long causing those enigmatic images to become repetitive and frankly boring. Add to that an overuse of arty affectations and self-conscious gimmicks (you can only focus on table lamps and wainscotting so many times) and you have a recipe for something unique which ultimately fails to materialize. There are a few effective scenes however as when Kevin makes an ill-advised visit to mom and dad’s room and then attempts to make a 911 call, and a truly unsettling sequence involving a half-formed face hovering just above the bed.
Of Human Bondage (USA 1934) (7): Bette Davis’ powerhouse performance runs roughshod over Leslie Howard’s milquetoast doormat in what is arguably the best of three motion picture adaptations based on W. Somerset Maugham’s tragic tale of amour fou. She plays egotistical London waitress Mildred, a bleached blonde siren who finds herself being pursued by lovesick medical student Philip (Howard). Keeping him perpetually at arm’s length yet using him shamelessly, Mildred’s cold-hearted selfishness threatens to destroy both their lives—until karma finally steps in. Released just before the Hays Office began enforcing its puritanical censorship laws, this two-hanky weeper scandalized audiences with allusions to loose living, illicit sex, and the horrifying wages of sin as Davis’ pouting harpy devolves into a crumbling skank while Howard’s burning martyr wrings his hands helplessly. The melodramatic flourishes may hearken back to the Silent Film era but Davis’ scathing voice was made for talkies and her depiction of a shallow and pitifully naive woman orchestrating her own fall is surely one of early cinema’s saddest performances.
The Creator (USA 2023) (5): In a future America global war has been declared on Artificial Intelligence after a cyber mishap leads to Los Angeles being nuked. Meanwhile, across the Pacific in the loosely connected states of “New Asia”, robots and humans have been co-existing peacefully for years. Now, with superior firepower doled from a mighty flying fortress dubbed NOMAD, the Americans have gained the upper hand but a mysterious human scientist nicknamed “The Creator” has developed a most unusual weapon which may just turn the tide… Writer/director Gareth Edwards’ “Good Apps vs Bad Guys” sci-fi epic definitely earned its Oscar nominations for Best Sound and Visual Effects with grungy futuristic settings and high-tech hardware reminiscent of the Star Wars and Blade Runner franchises. Impossible skyscrapers soar above streets teeming with androids and fantastical wheeled vehicles; NOMAD bathes jungle landscapes in blue neon grid patterns, dispensing incendiary missiles and armoured battalions with equal zeal; and flaming explosions are rendered in a deep tooth-rattling bass. Likewise, the make-up department seemed to have a grand old time envisioning what A.I. powered robots might look like (basically like us but with a whirring hamster tunnel where the back of their heads should be). But it never really amounts to very much thanks to a pedestrian script which once more has imperialistic Yankee dogs doling out death on a population of gentle, inoffensive mechanical souls who just want to love one another and tend to their rice paddies (the robots are freaking Buddhists for crying out loud). All comparisons to Viet Nam aside, it’s an old premise that has grown stale in the retelling and Edwards further undermines it with shallow sentimentality and enough plot holes to drive a battalion of cyber tanks through—those convenient “near escapes” and “hidden vulnerabilities” grow tired awfully quickly. Cloying and intellectually insulting, it left me wanting to thrash my smug computer with its own keyboard. John David Washington plays an American army operative who changes his mind when love enters the equation (oh sigh!); Allison Janney plays his commander (basically a bitch with a bone to pick); and newcomer Madeline Yuna Voyles shamelessly tugs at your heart as the “secret weapon”.
Róise & Frank (Ireland 2022) (5): When grieving widow Róise, becomes convinced that a stray mutt is actually the reincarnation of her late husband Frank, people—including her own son—begin looking at her strangely. But it isn’t long before the scruffy pooch wins over everyone’s heart—except for one cold-hearted bastard who could very well spell trouble. Filmed among the green fields of Waterford, writer/directors Rachael Moriarty and Peter Murphy’s feature is notable for being presented entirely in the Irish language…and that’s about it. Bogged down with Disney-style treacle and warm fuzzy moments this is just so much Gaelic schmaltz from the lonely little ginger-haired schoolboy whom “Frank” inspires to be his very best self (yay!) to the widow herself who goes from laying in bed most of the day to putting on make-up (yay!). A generic heart-tugger for those so inclined and I will admit the dog was cute…he just needs to get a better agent.
Red Light (USA 1949) (5): It would appear director Roy Del Ruth couldn’t figure out whether he wanted to make a murderous Film Noir or an inspirational faith-based epic so he decided to do both resulting in a feature so corny, so drenched in sugary sentiment that it’s actually entertaining…at least to a point. When his beloved brother is murdered businessman John Torno (a wooden performance from George Raft) vows to get even with the killer despite warnings from the local PD not to take the law into his own hands. Meanwhile the man who arranged the murder (Raymond Burr, perpetually scowling) is also taking steps to cover his tracks. Sounds like standard Noir fare especially with the introduction of requisite blonde dame Carla North (Virginia Mayo) who’s hired by Torno to aid in his investigation. But then Ruth starts piling on the religious claptrap as Torno experiences a crisis of faith (his brother was a priest) leading to scene after scene of candlelit naves, a stained glass window, and scripture quotes while an orchestra and screeching choir try to squeeze in as many variations of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” as they can in eighty minutes. Will Torno take “Thou Shalt Not Kill” to heart before it’s too late? Will the virginal Carla melt his vengeful heart? Will any prayers be answered? It’s only fitting that a missing bible may hold a crucial clue while an admittedly well shot finale features an invisible walk-on cameo by God. I’m just surprised that the Pope wasn’t credited as a technical advisor. Harry Morgan (M*A*S*H) camps it up shamelessly as the hired gun; William Frawley (I Love Lucy) is an unhelpful hotel clerk, and character actor Gene Lockhart's role as Torno’s faithful assistant gives the film its most suspenseful moments.
High Plains Drifter (USA 1973) (7): In order to protect themselves from a trio of outlaws intent on destroying their town, the cowardly citizens of a small mining outpost hire a gunslinging stranger (Clint Eastwood, who also directed). But nothing is quite as simple as it appears for the outlaws have a reason for exacting revenge, the frightened townsfolk are guarding a dark and terrible secret, and the stranger is carrying a grudge or two of his own. With its simple clapboard sets and austere locations (basically rocks, dirt, and a flat lake), one could almost regard this as a deconstructed western especially given its eclectic music score and host of generic characters ranging from neurotic barber and solemn undertaker to ineffectual sheriff, crooked mayor, and frigid matron. It’s an eccentric morality play of sorts rife with violence (including a contentious rape) and just a suggestion of the supernatural—as the stranger tries to galvanize the locals into some semblance of a militia he insists they rename the town “Hell” and literally paint it red for reasons not immediately made clear. And when that final shootout comes all hell does indeed break loose, but not quite in the way expected. Certainly unconventional—even avant-garde—for its time, Eastwood doesn’t quite hit the high notes of Sergio Leone’s quasi-mythical oaters but he did shake things up enough to gain the ire of veteran screen cowboy John Wayne who condemned the movie’s brutality and Old West revisionism. Verna Bloom co-stars as a conflicted housewife and she’s joined by Dark Shadows’ Mitchell Ryan as an underhanded businessman, Geoffrey Lewis as the outlaw leader, and former Wizard of Oz Munchkin Billy Curtis as the town’s diminutive mouse who ends up roaring.
