Category Archives: RKO Radio Pictures

The Leopard Man (1943, Jacques Tourneur)

The Leopard Man has such beauteous production values–one would never think it was a low budget picture, not with Robert De Grasse’s lush blacks and he and director Tourneur’s tracking shots–it’s a shame the acting fails the film.

A lot of the problem the script. Co-screenwriters Ardel Wray and Edward Dein try hard to show Hispanic culture in a New Mexico town, both in the dialogue and the tone. Sadly, they fail miserably. The script seems to be showing the townspeople as solemnly dignified, but it comes off as callow and ignorant.

Tourneur follows prospective victims around to ratchet up the fear factor, which is a fine approach, but the actors are just terrible. Second-billed Margo gives such an awful performance–not to mention her character being a lousy human being in general–every time the titular monster takes a victim, it’s sad it’s not her. Her fellow ingenues, Margaret Landry and Tuulikki Paananen, are both awful too.

In the ostensible female lead, Jean Brooks is good but she has almost nothing to do. She and leading man Dennis O’Keefe are literally visitors in The Leopard Man; the film downgrades their presence to a subplot.

Good supporting work from James Bell and Abner Biberman helps. Ben Bard is iffy as the cop.

Great music from Roy Webb, excellent cutting from Mark Robson. Tourneur’s composition is outstanding no matter the scene. The Leopard Man is a technical delight to behold… it’s a shame about the middling stuff.

CREDITS

Directed by Jacques Tourneur; screenplay by Ardel Wray and Edward Dein, based on a novel by Cornell Woolrich; director of photography, Robert De Grasse; edited by Mark Robson; music by Roy Webb; produced by Val Lewton; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Dennis O’Keefe (Jerry Manning), Jean Brooks (Kiki Walker), James Bell (Dr. Galbraith), Ben Bard (Chief Roblos), Abner Biberman (Charlie How-Come), Margaret Landry (Teresa Delgado), Tuulikki Paananen (Consuelo Contreras), Isabel Jewell (Maria the Fortune Teller) and Margo (Clo-Clo).


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Murder on a Honeymoon (1935, Lloyd Corrigan)

Murder on a Honeymoon is a tepid outing for Edna May Oliver and James Gleason’s detecting duo. It’s the third in the series and, while Oliver and Gleason are back, it’s clear some of the magic was behind the camera. Robert Benchley and Seton I. Miller’s script is a little too nice (in addition to being boring) and Lloyd Corrigan’s direction lacks any inspiration.

Honeymoon takes place on Catalina, which–from the film–seems to be the most boring vacation spot in the world. The only time the murder investigation overlaps with vacation activities is in a closed casino, which is one of the film’s better sequences.

But the script’s the real problem. It ignores suspects, forgets the supporting cast and makes Gleason way too nice to Oliver. Their bickering originally had a give and take–in Honeymoon, Gleason pulls his punches. The only one being really mean to Oliver is the film’s confirmed villain.

Even the supporting cast is a little weak. None of them have story arcs–except Lola Lane–and she’s absent for most of her own arc. Lane isn’t in the picture long enough to make an impression, but DeWitt Jennings is rather weak and Spencer Charters’s incompetent local police chief needs work. It might not be Charters’s fault, since the script never lets Oliver cut into him deep enough.

There are some amusing moments with Arthur Hoyt’s unprofessional medical examiner though.

The murderer’s identity’s a surprise, but a surprise doesn’t make up for the rest.

CREDITS

Directed by Lloyd Corrigan; screenplay by Seton I. Miller and Robert Benchley, based on a novel by Stuart Palmer; director of photography, Nicholas Musuraca; edited by William Morgan; music by Alberto Colombo; produced by Kenneth Macgowan; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Edna May Oliver (Hildegarde Withers), James Gleason (Inspector Oscar Piper), Lola Lane (Phyllis La Font), George Meeker (Tom Kelsey), Harry Ellerbe (Mr. Deving), Dorothy Libaire (Mrs. Deving), Leo G. Carroll (Director Joseph B. Tate), DeWitt Jennings (Captain Beegle), Spencer Charters (Chief Of Police Britt), Arthur Hoyt (Dr. O’Rourke), Chick Chandler (Pilot French), Matt McHugh (Pilot Madden), Willie Best (Willie the Porter), Morgan Wallace (McArthur) and Brooks Benedict (Roswell T. Forrest).


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Deadline at Dawn (1946, Harold Clurman)

Given all the excellent components, Deadline at Dawn ought to be a lot better. It has a compelling plot–a naive sailor and erstwhile murder suspect (Bill Williams) has to solve the crime before he ships out, but he’s just met a city hardened girl (Susan Hayward) and crushing on her and she’s warming to him–and Clifford Odets’s screenplay doesn’t do it justice.

Odets uses pat, declarative statements for the most part, giving Hayward almost nothing to work with. Williams is better the less he has to do, probably because Odets and director Clurman spend the first half of the picture establishing he’s a dope.

The supporting cast is (mostly) fantastic. Paul Lukas’s cabbie gets involved in the amateur investigation, a helpless romantic out to help the couple. Then there are Joseph Calleia and Jerome Cowan, who both get roped into tagging along. Odets’s script handles Dawn‘s large, shifting group of characters quite well. It’s just a shame he can’t write better dialogue or keep up the pace.

While some of the supporting cast–especially the cops–are unimpressive, only Marvin Miller is bad.

As a director, Clurman owes a lot to his cinematographer, Nicholas Musuraca. Dawn always looks great, even when it’s a lousy action scene (there are two or three)–editor Roland Gross can’t cut them. Clurman has one bad composition for every two good ones. The city sets look fantastic.

After a strong open, Dawn gets tedious. Hayward, Calleia and Musuraca make it worth a look.

CREDITS

Directed by Harold Clurman; screenplay by Clifford Odets, based on the novel by Cornell Woolrich; director of photography, Nicholas Musuraca; edited by Roland Gross; music by Hanns Eisler; produced by Adrian Scott; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Bill Williams (Alex Winkley), Susan Hayward (June Goth), Paul Lukas (Gus Hoffman), Joseph Calleia (Val Bartelli), Osa Massen (Helen Robinson), Jerome Cowan (Lester Brady), Marvin Miller (Sleepy Parsons), Steven Geray (Gloved Man), Joe Sawyer (Babe Dooley), Constance Worth (Mrs. Raymond) and Lola Lane (Edna Bartelli).


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Murder on the Blackboard (1934, George Archainbaud)

As its title suggests, Murder on the Blackboard concerns a murder in a school, specifically an elementary school. Only one student appears; Blackboard concentrates on the rather shady goings-ons of the staff. There’s a drunk janitor, a lecherous principal, not to mention a love triangle between teachers. And, one mustn’t forget, Edna May Oliver’s Ms. Withers.

Blackboard is the second in the Withers and Piper (James Gleason) series, though it’s not a direct sequel to the first. Here, Oliver and Gleason bicker and flirt in their charming and funny cantankerous people of a certain age way, but without any relationship development.

Willis Goldbeck’s script has a great structure, which makes Blackboard sail along–ably assisted by the aforementioned bickering. It’s a full ten minutes before Oliver even appears, as Blackboard establishes not just the suspects, but the possible victims, and then it’s a real-time investigation for a while once Gleason shows up. Archainbaud’s direction is okay, though he apparently didn’t give Archie Marshek enough material for smooth cutting. Nicholas Musuraca’s photography–Blackboard almost entirely takes place in the school–is real nice.

There supporting cast is competent, but they don’t make much impression after those first ten minutes. Bruce Cabot, Gertrude Michael and Barbara Fritchie are the teacher love triangle; Cabot’s easily the best of the three. Tully Marshall’s amusing as the principal, particularly opposite Oliver.

Oliver, Gleason and Goldbeck produce an excellent diversion. They distract from the mystery’s lack of mysteriousness for nearly the entire running time.

CREDITS

Directed by George Archainbaud; screenplay by Willis Goldbeck, based on the story by Stuart Palmer; director of photography, Nicholas Musuraca; edited by Archie Marshek; music by Bernhard Kaun and Max Steiner; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Edna May Oliver (Hildegarde Withers), James Gleason (Inspector Oscar Piper), Bruce Cabot (Ad Stevens), Gertrude Michael (Jane Davis), Barbara Fritchie (Louise Halloran), Tully Marshall (Mr. MacFarland), Frederick Vogeding (Otto Schweitzer), Regis Toomey (Detective Smiley North), Edgar Kennedy (Detective Donahue) and Jackie Searl (Leland Stanford Jones).


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Framed (1930, George Archainbaud)

Framed feels a little like it was a silent turned into a talkie. About half the time, instead establishing shots for scene changes, there are expository title cards. Usually they’re for time changes, as though director Archainbaud couldn’t think of anything else.

It’s hard to say how many of Framed‘s problems are Archainbaud’s fault. Most of the performances are bad, but they’re bad enough it’s not like Archainbaud could have fixed anything.

Lead Evelyn Brent and one of her beaus, Ralf Harolde, remind of particularly bad understudies taking on the roles. Harolde tries so hard to develop his character’s nervous ticks, he forgets to deliver his dialogue well. As for Brent… she’s not any good and worse, she’s annoying.

The picture opens with a good interrogation scene–Archainbaud’s best shot is his first–but then Brent starts talking and the film falls apart. Brent has a lot of problem getting out Wallace Smith’s dialogue. It might not even be here fault; Smith’s dialogue is a constant flop.

Her other beau, Regis Toomey, is a little better. He’s can’t be good–the dialogue–but he’s a little better. Until his scene opposite his father, played by William Holden (no, a different one), and then that scene falls apart thanks to the lousy dialogue.

In the supporting cast, Maurice Black and Robert Emmett O’Connor are both fine. Holden is not.

Jack Kitchin’s editing is weak too, though it’s not like Archainbaud was giving him good shots.

Framed is an insufferably drab bore.

CREDITS

Directed by George Archainbaud; written by Paul Schofield and Wallace Smith; director of photography, Leo Tover; edited by Jack Kitchin; produced by William LeBaron; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Evelyn Brent (Rose Manning), Regis Toomey (Jimmy Carter), Ralf Harolde (Chuck Gaines), William Holden (Inspector McArthur), Maurice Black (Bing Murdock) and Robert Emmett O’Connor (Sergeant Burke).


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Cat People (1942, Jacques Tourneur)

How to describe Cat People….

When a swell, blond American (Kent Smith) meets a dark (but not too dark) Eastern European woman (Simone Simon), she rouses all sorts of non-apple pie passions in him. Being a swell guy, he pressures her into marrying him–she’s clearly emotionally disturbed, but it’s okay… Smith hires her a great psychiatrist (Tom Conway) who eventually tries to rape her.

I’m not making up the passions part by the way–the scene where Smith tries explaining it all to other woman Jane Randolph is painful. Smith’s terrible.

That above synopsis pretty much gets at Cat People‘s core story. Beware the foreigner. Randolph’s a much better match for Smith anyway. She’s a hard worker, not some kind of artist.

Sadly, the film’s got a lot of great things about it. DeWitt Bodeen’s mildly xenophobic screenplay still has some amazing scenes in it… though most of them come at the beginning when Simon’s still the protagonist. There’s later an odd shift of focus to Smith and Randolph. Actually, mostly Randolph so she can be the damsel in distress.

Tourneur’s direction is startling, particularly in those high suspense scenes; it’s excellent work. Some of Cat People‘s shots are singular. Simon’s great, Conway’s great (it’s interesting to see him ooze the charm in equal parts with the slime), Randolph’s pretty good (just wholly unlikable).

Fantastic Nicholas Musuraca photography and Mark Robson editing round out Cat People.

Given its many–occasionally extraordinary–successes, it’s a shame Bodeen’s plot flops.

CREDITS

Directed by Jacques Tourneur; written by DeWitt Bodeen; director of photography, Nicholas Musuraca; edited by Mark Robson; music by Roy Webb; produced by Val Lewton; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Simone Simon (Irena Dubrovna), Kent Smith (Oliver Reed), Tom Conway (Dr. Louis Judd), Jane Randolph (Alice Moore), Alan Napier (Doc Carver), Alec Craig (Zookeeper) and Jack Holt (The Commodore).


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Wildcat Bus (1940, Frank Woodruff)

Wildcat Bus is a tepid b picture about corruption in the hired car business. A group of bad guys–they run an unlicensed car firm–go after sweet old Oscar O’Shea’s bus company. It all hinges on a bankrupted blue blood (Charles Lang), his trusty sidekick (Paul Guilfoyle) and O’Shea’s daughter (Fay Wray).

If Wildcat weren’t so earnest about its story, the film might be good for a laugh. Instead, thanks to the serious nature of its approach, it’s a frequently lame outing. There is a fantastic chase sequence in the third act, however, which shows more directorial skill from Woodruff–not to mention editing competency from George Crone–than the rest of the film. Unfortunately, the good sequence doesn’t turn Wildcat around. It’s just an island.

Woodruff’s utterly incapable of directing actors. Lang and Wray are both appealing, but neither are good. Guilfoyle manages to be both, as he apparently required less direction. Some of the bad guys–Don Costello in particular–are good. Though Leona Roberts is terrible as the lead villain.

The picture runs just over an hour and they apparently saved money by not showing any moving cars during the first act. That budget constraint at least gave Wildcat some personality; it gets worse when there’s actual action (until that great pre-finale chase).

Speaking of the finale, it’s idiotic and more appropriate for slapstick. There’s a good joke or two–definitely one, I might be misremembering another.

It’s not worth investing the hour in Wildcat.

CREDITS

Directed by Frank Woodruff; written by Lou Lusty; director of photography, Jack MacKenzie; edited by George Crone; music by Roy Webb; produced by Cliff Reid; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Fay Wray (Ted Dawson), Charles Lang (Jerry Waters), Paul Guilfoyle (Donovan), Don Costello (Sid Casey), Oscar O’Shea (Charles Dawson), Leona Roberts (Ma), Frank Shannon (Sweeney), Paul McGrath (Stanley Regan), Joe Sawyer (Burke), Roland Drew (Davis) and Warren Ashe (Joe Miller).


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Isle of the Dead (1945, Mark Robson)

The Greek anti-defamation league, if it existed, mustn’t have had much power when Isle of the Dead came out. It’s a quarantine drama, a genre I’m unfamiliar with but certainly has a lot of potential, set on a small Greek island. There’s nothing on the island besides an amateur Swiss archeologist (Jason Robards Sr.) and a graveyard. Boris Karloff plays a Greek general (the film’s set during the First Balkan War) who heads over to visit his wife’s tomb, dragging along American war correspondent Marc Cramer.

Karloff and Cramer find some mild mystery before ending up in Robards’s home, where he’s entertaining multiple guests–temporary refuges from Karloff’s latest battle.

The plague makes an appearance, forcing everyone to stay on the small island. Karloff and fellow Greek Helene Thimig start thinking its an evil spirit and plot murder.

While Thimig is over the top, Karloff’s descent into madness is wonderful. Even when he ignores fact, his conviction remains reasonable. It’s a quiet, unassuming performance from him–costar Cramer appears to be taller even; he transfixes.

Director Robson handles the cast and their subplots well, with Ardel Wray’s script weaving the subplots across each other, fueling the main thrust of the picture. It’s a brilliant, unpredictable script.

Besides Karloff, the best performances are from Ellen Drew (as a Greek peasant who suffered at the military’s hand) and Katherine Emery (as her ill friend). The only other iffy performance is Ernst Deutsch.

Isle resists most formula (there’s romance); it’s rather good.

CREDITS

Directed by Mark Robson; written by Ardel Wray; director of photography, Jack MacKenzie; edited by Lyle Boyer; music by Leigh Harline; produced by Val Lewton; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Boris Karloff (Gen. Nikolas Pherides), Marc Cramer (Oliver Davis), Ellen Drew (Thea), Katherine Emery (Mrs. Mary St. Aubyn), Alan Napier (St. Aubyn), Jason Robards Sr. (Albrecht), Skelton Knaggs (Andrew Robbins), Ernst Deutsch (Dr. Drossos) and Helene Thimig (Madame Kyra).


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The Most Dangerous Game (1932, Ernest B. Schoedsack and Irving Pichel)

Running about an hour, The Most Dangerous Game shouldn’t be boring. But it somehow manages. Worse, the boring stuff comes at the end; directors Schoedsack and Pichel drag out the conclusion with a false ending or two.

The film doesn’t have much to recommend it. That laborious ending wipes short runtime off the board, leaving nothing but good sets, Henry W. Gerrard’s photography and Leslie Banks’s glorious scene-chewing performance as the bad guy. James Ashmore Creelman’s script occasionally has good dialogue, most of it goes to Banks. Unfortunately, Creelman’s script doesn’t have a good story.

Still, the script isn’t Game‘s problem. Simply, Directors Schoedsack and Pichel do a rather bad job. They rely heavily on second person close-ups–the actors are performing for the viewer, showing exaggerated emotion; it’s a terrible choice. Joel McCrea seems silly in the lead and Fay Wray is often just plain bad. She has a couple good moments, early on, but they’re amid some atrocious ones.

The hunt–if you don’t know what kind of animal is “the most dangerous game,” I won’t spoil it (though you should)–starts up over halfway into the film. Here Schoedsack and Pichel present a really boring chase sequence through the magnificent jungle sets. Their action is two dimensional. They also never establish their setting, which would have made the action play better… and give Game more weight.

Robert Armstrong is hilarious, but he isn’t not enough to save the picture.

And Max Steiner’s score is dreadful.

CREDITS

Directed by Ernest B. Schoedsack and Irving Pichel; screenplay by James Ashmore Creelman, based on the story by Richard Connell; director of photography, Henry W. Gerrard; edited by Archie Marshek; music by Max Steiner; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Joel McCrea (Robert Rainsford), Fay Wray (Eve Trowbridge), Robert Armstrong (Martin Trowbridge), Leslie Banks (Count Zaroff), Noble Johnson (Ivan), Steve Clemente (Tartar) and William B. Davidson (Captain).


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The Ghost Ship (1943, Mark Robson)

Although the title suggests otherwise, The Ghost Ship is not a supernatural thriller. It is, however, a very effective suspense picture.

Russell Wade (in a sturdy lead performance) is a new officer. On his first ship out, he begins to suspect the captain–Richard Dix, who steadily gets creepier–is a little off his rocker. Of course, almost everything about the ship is somewhat strange, leaving Wade in a bit of a pickle.

The film moves along at a brisk pace–director Robson keeps the scenes short, which makes it feel more substantial than its seventy minutes. Only towards the end does Robson compress too much, likely due to the low budget.

Ghost Ship gets better as it moves along, mostly because the first third is so narratively disjointed. Wade’s undoubtedly the protagonist, but a mute sailor (Skelton Knaggs) narrates the events. The eerie narration is for tone, but Ghost Ship doesn’t need it. The dark ship–Nicholas Musuraca lights the picture beautifully–is never safe, even during the day scenes.

Donald Henderson Clarke’s screenplay recovers in the second act (only to falter for the finish). But Ghost Ship is always unnerving, thanks to Robson’s sure direction and the acting.

There are some strong supporting turns from Dewey Robinson, Edmund Glover and Edith Barrett. Some of the crew members are a little weak, but they’re passable.

John Lockert’s editing is poor. Nice score from Roy Webb.

Ghost Ship has its problems–particularly that finish–but it’s an good, uncanny trip.

CREDITS

Directed by Mark Robson; screenplay by Donald Henderson Clarke, based on a story by Leo Mittler; director of photography, Nicholas Musuraca; edited by John Lockert; music by Roy Webb; produced by Val Lewton; released by RKO Radio Pictures.

Starring Russell Wade (3rd Officer Tom Merriam), Richard Dix (Capt. Will Stone), Edmund Glover (Sparks, the Radioman), Dewey Robinson (Boats), Ben Bard (First Officer Bowns), Skelton Knaggs (Finn, the Mute) and Edith Barrett (Ellen Roberts).


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