[One to four stars. Four sentences each. No spoilers.]
Two with Carole Lombard
Virtue (dir. Eddie Buzzell, 1932). Carole Lombard stars as Mae — just Mae — a streetwalker who marries cabdriver Jimmy Doyle (Pat O’Brien) and tries but fails to keep her previous life a secret. Lombard is great, mixing indignation over her husband’s suspicions with shame about her past. O’Brien is little more than mechanical. The surprise of the movie is Mayo Methot, whom I’ve known only as a name (one half of the battling Bogarts with husband Humphrey), turning in a solid performance as Mae’s friend Lil. ★★★
No Man of Her Own (dir. Wesley Ruggles, 1932). Clark Gable is Babe Stewart, a card sharp who’s left New York while trouble blows over. In sleepy Glendale, wherever that is, he meets Connie Randall, a lonely librarian (Carole Lombard), and marries her on the flip of a coin. Babe’s charm is invisible to me (he’s a cad, a cheat, an egomaniac); Connie’s wit and spunk are considerable. But what’ll happen when Connie cottons to the way her new husband makes his living? ★★★★
[As should now be obvious, there’s no relation to the Mitchell Leisen movie of the same name.]
*
A Private War (dir. Matthew Heineman, 2018). Rosamund Pike as Marie Colvin, war correspondent, putting her life on the line in Sri Lanka, Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, and Syria. A harrowing depiction of the pain of war and a reporter’s compulsion to bear witness. But the dialogue is sometimes wooden (especially in the dreadful scenes with Stanley Tucci), and I was too often reminded of the movie trope of the injured player pleading to get back in the game. Most disturbing scene for me: Colvin looking at a newsroom map with Post-its marking hotspots, wondering what risk to take next. ★★★
*
Limelight (dir. Charles Chaplin, 1952). It’s 1914: Chaplin is a fading music-hall performer; Claire Bloom is a troubled dancer whom he cares for after she attempts suicide. A sad, beautiful, luminous depiction of theatrical fame, falling and rising, and a sharp commentary on the whims of audiences. Many scenes echo silents, but there’s also a lot of talking, with Chaplin’s Carvelo propounding a philosophy of life that seems to have been Chaplin’s own (a joyful stoicism, I’d call it). With Nigel Bruce, Buster Keaton, Norman Lloyd, and a host of Chaplins. ★★★★
*
Paris Blues (dir. Martin Ritt, 1961). Friends Connie and Lillian (Diahann Carroll, Joanne Woodward) come to Paris for a vacation and meet ex-pat jazz musicians Eddie and Ram (Sidney Poitier and Paul Newman). It’s Route 66 in Paris, with Poitier’s Eddie as the genial Tod Stiles, and Newman’s Ram as the edgier Buz Murdock. Great cinematography by Christian Matras, with moody scenes of Parisian streets (landmarks, appropriately, are peripheral); a good score by Duke Ellington; a wonderful appearance by Louis Armstrong as visiting musician Wild Man Moore; and much hokey dialogue. Look for Aaron Bridgers (Billy Strayhorn’s partner for many years) as a pianist. ★★★
*
Walk a Crooked Mile (dir. Gordon Douglas, 1948). An FBI/Scotland Yard procedural, served in the semi-documentary style (Reed Hadley as narrator), with generous helpings of noir. Indeed: as the story nears its (alas) contrived end, everything seems to take place in the dark. Dennis O’Keefe and Louis Hayward — the one rumpled, the other suave —team up to figure out who’s taking atomic secrets out of a research center and sending them to the Soviets. With invisible inks, undercover laundering, romance between scientists, and secret messages in paintings, there’s something for everyone. ★★★
*
Mikey and Nicky (dir. Elaine May, 1976). Nicky, small-time hoodlum (John Cassavetes), has been marked for a hit and is on the run; Mikey, fellow hoodlum and friend from childhood (Peter Falk), has answered Nicky’s call for help. What follows is one night in Philadelphia, as the two men, one frantic, the other a voice of calm reason, wander the streets and ride buses, sparring with words and fists (improvising, I think, at least sometimes), and visiting bars, exes, a candy store, and a graveyard. And all the while a hit man (the late Ned Beatty) is looking for Nicky. An extraordinary movie about debts to memory and the limits of loyalty. ★★★★
*
Gidget (dir. Paul Wendkos, 1959). Sandra Dee is Francie Lawrence, an almost-seventeen tomboy, down on dating (ick), newly fascinated by surfing, dubbed Gidget (“girl” + “midget”) by the bro surfers who adopt her as a laughable, perky mascot. With the Big Kahuna (Cliff Robertson) and Moondoggie (James Darren) as protectors and instructors, she learns to surf, and, more importantly, learns to live the vital lesson imparted by her grandmother’s sampler: “To be a real woman is to bring out the best in a man.” It’s Social Norms 101, as Gidget changes from flat-chested iconoclast to busty, pinned sweetheart. This movie would pair weirdly and well with The Edge of Seventeen (dir. Kelly Fremon Craig, 2016). ★★★
*
The Las Vegas Story (dir. Robert Stevenson, 1952). Watching Victor Mature and Vincent Price vie for Jane Russell in this movie, I feel like Gidget: ick! Russell plays Linda Rollins, who used to perform (with a seedy-looking Hoagy Carmichael) at a Vegas casino (the aptly named Last Chance). Linda’s old flame Dave (Mature) is on the Vegas police force; her husband Lloyd (Price) is in financial trouble. The plot hinges on an expensive necklace, and there’s a hotel named the Fabulous, though fabulous is not a noun. ★★
*
Blackmail (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1929). I’ve been told that even Brits find the quick dialogue in Hitchcock’s early movies difficult to follow, but this one must be an exception: it moves slowly (no surprise that it’s an adaptation of a play). Long story short: Alice (Anny Ondra) kills a man while defending herself against rape; her Scotland Yard boyfriend Frank (John Longden) is placed in charge of the investigation; and there’s a fellow (Donald Calthrop) who has circumstantial evidence of Alice’s guilt. Look for hints of The 39 Steps, Saboteur, Shadow of a Doubt, and North by Northwest. My favorite scenes: the tobacco shop, with its retail density. ★★★
*
Fourteen keys
Seven Keys to Baldpate (dir. Reginald Barker 1929). First it was a novel, by Earl Derr Biggers; then, a play by George M. Cohan; then the stuff of seven movies, two television dramas, and two radio plays. “Adventuress, crooked politicians, safe robbed, and love at first sight: I wanted to get away from melodrama,” says a hack writer. It’s a spoof melodrama, with the writer (Richard Dix) trying to win a bet by writing a 10,000-word story in twenty-four hours in an empty inn. But an adventuress, crooked politicians, &c., make his life difficult. ★★
Seven Keys to Baldpate (dir. Lew Landers, 1947). This version is a considerable improvement, cutting nearly all the exposition and adding a more dweebish mystery writer (Phillip Terry, Ray Milland’s brother in The Lost Weekend ) and a few quick scares. Eduardo Ciannelli (Krug in Foreign Correspondent ) provides genuine menace as a criminal mastermind; Jimmy Conlin (of a zillion movies) adds weirdness as a misogynistic hermit. That this play is still performed might have more to do with its range of parts (X would be perfect as Y ) than with any inherent dramatic goodness. ★★★
Related reading
All OCA movie posts (Pinboard)
[Sources: Criterion Channel, Netflix, TCM, YouTube.]
