Zero Hour! (1957, Hall Bartlett)

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: fighter pilot suffering PTSD boards an airplane in a last-ditch effort to salvage a bad relationship only for the plane to serve rotten fish, requiring this unstable pilot to fly the jet to safety. And there’s an exclamation point at the end of the title.

No, it’s not Airplane!, it’s that film’s (still) unofficial source material–Zero Hour!. The difference being Hour plays it straight, instead of making fun of playing it straight, but it’s all the same material; only, you’re watching it and not supposed to laugh at it.

And it’s a long eighty minutes, especially once Sterling Hayden shows up to start barking absolutely pointless exposition.

The movie begins with narration explaining just before the end of World War II, Canadian squadron leader Dana Andrews made a bad call and got most of his men killed. Or at least a large number of them. Hayden may or may not have been one of those men. The movie’s strangely opaque about it. When we leave 1945 for the future, Andrews is in bad shape. Fast forward ten years, and we find out he’s never made anything of himself, despite marrying Linda Darnell and having a kid (an abjectly annoying Ray Ferrell). Darnell’s fed up, and she’s leaving, so Andrews chases her to the airport and buys another seat to follow her.

There will be numerous moments throughout Hour when it seems like Darnell’s going to have something to do other than debase herself at the altar of machismo. She can’t respect Andrews because he won’t get over getting those guys killed and man up. The movie simultaneously tries to show the horrors of experiencing PTSD while also lambasting him for having it. When Andrews has to fly the jet, Darnell’s in the co-pilot’s chair, and it seems like there’s going to be the couple teaming up to solve their problem.

No, not at all. However, that sequence features Andrews’s best acting in the film, when he successfully intensely stares straight ahead in static panic. However, Andrews isn’t the worst performance. Thanks to Hour’s casting choices, the bloated screenplay, and director Bartlett’s failings… every performance in Hour is eventually bad except maybe Jerry Paris, who plays flight attendant Peggy King’s boyfriend. Sorry, misspoke—stewardess, and not just stewardess, but “Stewardess,” most of the characters refuse to acknowledge she may have a name. Paris is bland, but he’s consistent. For a while, it seems like King might turn in a good turn, but then no. She also can’t stop looking into the camera in the third act, which just makes the whole picture seem more embarrassing.

Geoffrey Toone plays the doctor, who luckily didn’t have the fish. He’s absolutely flat and delivers mouthfuls of exposition. Hour’s script is pretty sure all you have to do to convince people it’s legit is use enough jargon. But Toone’s not forceful enough. Hayden’s arguably worse—heck, he’s arguably the worst performance, and Hour also stars former pro-football star Elroy ‘Crazylegs’ Hirsch, and Hirsch is a very, very bad actor. But Hayden’s a phenomenon, chain-smoking, yelling at thin air, staring into space. It’s a masterclass in how not to do a solo performance.

Though he’s not solo, he’s got a bunch of yes-men around to look worried (and get coffee). Charles Quinlivan plays the main yes-man. And until the third act, Quinlivan seems like he will get through Hour unscathed. He does not, but he gives that impression the longest of anyone in the cast.

The special effects are ambitious—except the lousy stock footage (including when the Canadian jet becomes an American Airlines one). They’re not good, but they’re ambitious. The sets are either too big, or Bartlett doesn’t know how to shoot them.

Skip Zero Hour! and watch the remake.

This post is part of the 2nd Annual “Favorite Stars in B Movies” Blogathon hosted by Brian of Films From Beyond The Time Barrier.

Ball of Fire (1941, Howard Hawks)

Ball of Fire is a rare delight. It’s got an enormous cast of scene-stealers who all work in unison, thanks to Hawks’s direction but also Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder’s screenplay being so well-balanced.

For most of the picture. The third act has two choices, and it chooses poorly but still successfully; I’ll get to it later. First the rundown.

Fire is the story of eight encyclopedia authors who have been living in seclusion for nine years (in New York City). They’ve got three more years (at least) on the encyclopedia, but they’ve found their rhythm. Right up until garbage man Allen Jenkins lets himself into their house—they’re right off Central Park on 83rd, with a ginormous work area on the first floor and their living quarters on the second floor; Jenkins has some questions about a trivia sweepstakes and figured, based on the books he’s seen through the windows, they’d have answers.

However, Jenkins’s slang makes English content expert Gary Cooper realize he’s using twenty-year-old books and nine-years removed personal experience. If he doesn’t go out into the world and listen to some slang, the encyclopedia’s entry will be at best dated, at worst incorrect.

Cooper’s the youngest of the eight authors. The rest are mostly familiar character actors of a certain age: (in alphabetical order) Richard Haydn, Oskar Homolka, Leonid Kinskey, Tully Marshall, Aubrey Mather, S.Z. Sakall, and Henry Travers. All of them are splendid; Homolka and Haydn are probably the best. They’re also the two with the most to do, though Travers gets a bit. Or his smaller part just stands out more because it’s Clarence. Mather, Kinskey, and Marshall probably get the least to do, meaning they deliver punchlines. Haydn gets the most to do because he’s the only one of the men who’s ever been married. They’re all bachelors, all utterly perplexed to do around the ladies, including Cooper, who we discover Doogie Howsered instead of chasing girls.

However, the older men do know Cooper’s at least potentially a hit with the ladies; he’s in charge of flirting with their reluctant benefactor, Mary Field, whose dead father had the encyclopedia project in his will. Field’s only got a little to do, but like everyone else, she’s great. Charles Lane plays her attorney because Ball’s a who’s who of recognizable Classic Hollywood supporting players.

Anyway.

On his expedition to find the newest slang, Cooper finds his way into a nightclub, where Barbara Stanwyck is performing. He finds her vocabulary fascinating and even more enthralling than revealing outfits. Turns out Stanwyck’s a gangster’s moll; in this case, the gangster’s Dana Andrews, who probably gives the film’s most energetic performance. Andrews can’t quite steal the scenes, not opposite such strong actors, but he makes sure to stand out. He’s a hoot, especially once he starts mixing charm with menace.

The D.A. has got the goods on Andrews, but only if Stanwyck can give evidence against him. The case they’ve got Andrews dead to rights on is slightly absurdist, with various sight gags and one-liners, and no one ever just gets the idea to have Stanwyck lie. Though maybe they’ve got a witness placing her somewhere. It’s a very thoughtful, intentionally convoluted setup, with Brackett and Wilder enjoying the excuse to spin great expository yarns.

Andrews’s solution is to have Stanwyck temporarily go on the lamb, with a fantastic Dan Duryea as her bodyguard. Ralph Peters is also there to help, but the movie knows to give Duryea more material. He’s so good.

Luckily, Cooper’s arranging a slang symposium and gives Stanwyck an invite; she figures he won’t mind if she shows up early and needs to crash there for the night. While it turns out Cooper does mind, his seven roommates are ecstatic at the idea of Stanwyck bunking with them for the evening.

An evening turns into a few days, during which Stanwyck teaches the old boys the latest dances while helping Cooper pick up—and study—the latest lingo. Stanwyck’s presence annoys housekeeper Kathleen Howard to no end, and when Howard finally puts her foot down, Stanwyck’s got to take drastic measures. In doing so, she discovers Cooper’s got a crush on her and, unlike his colleagues, still wants to do something about it. So Stanwyck makes it work in her favor while starting to get dreamy-eyed when looking at Cooper.

While Cooper’s got some excellent comedy moments in Ball and he’s earnest in his romantic scenes, he’s still playing an elevated rube. Sure, his character’s in charge of supervising the project, but he’s only the protagonist of the bunch because he’s Gary Cooper. Stanwyck, however, gets to take this trope-ready part and turn it into something incredible. The romance subplot comes from her performance; otherwise, it’s just a cruel joke at Cooper’s expense. The nasty subterfuge thing also never works too much against her character being sympathetic because Stanwyck’s tortured with regret about the plan.

Things perturb to get all the parties together for the finish; only comedic happenstance throws things off course so the second act can end where you’d think they’d be ending the third.

Now for that third act.

It’s longer than it needs to be, especially since they never get the film entirely back on track—they spent too much time at the station to keep the unrelated metaphor going (there’s a lot of car and truck humor, actually). The actual pacing issues aside, the material’s all well-written because it’s Brackett and Wilder, and the cast is, as usual, delightful; it just isn’t where the film had been headed. It’s hectic, with lots of great moments for the actors, but it’s reductive.

The filmmakers seem to know it too. Whenever the distraction starts dragging, one of the cast will have some great moment and reset the timer. The movie’s frittering and knows it. Once they’ve gotten it all together (again), adding four more characters to the mix (at least sixteen characters in play), the ending’s strong and fun. It can’t entirely make up for the lost time but knowingly wasted it well.

Ball of Fire’s mostly a phenomenal comedy. Stanwyck’s great, Cooper’s real good, Andrews, Duryea, Homolka, they’re all real good. Haydn gets a particularly devastating scene all to himself. The only character who doesn’t get a good arc is Howard as the justifiably judgey housekeeper, which hurts the performance.

In addition to all the character actors in major supporting roles, there’s also a young Elisha Cook. It’s just packed with great performances, big and small.

Like I said before, a rare delight.

This post is part of the Caftan Woman Blogathon – Honoring Patricia Nolan-Hall hosted by Patty of Lady Eve’s Reel Life and Jacqueline of Another Old Movie Blog.

Night of the Demon (1957, Jacques Tourneur)

Despite Dana Andrews and Peggy Cummins being perfectly serviceable leads, Night of the Demon never really comes to life without antagonist Niall MacGinnis around. MacGinnis is a Satanic cult leader who conjures forth demons from Hell—hence the title—to deal with his enemies and—while he never explicitly confesses to his enemies… he takes a delight in his villainy. That delight helps quite a bit with all his expository speeches, which lag whenever he’s not giving them.

At first it seems like the film’s going to have some expository shortcuts—for example, Andrews’s introduction is inventive and pragmatic—but then start the various info dumps. Eventually Cummins gets involved—she and Andrews have a mostly chemistry-free relationship other than some seemingly platonic concern (though they have a good “cute meet” on an airplane). Andrews is flying over to England to help fellow psychiatrist Maurice Denham investigate MacGinnis. Cummins is Denham’s niece and returning for some contrived reason. See, once MacGinnis sicks a demon on Andrews, he’s got to be the skeptic but there also needs to be a reluctant believer: Cummins.

The film establishes almost immediately whether or not MacGinnis is full of it on the demonology business; there’s a voice over setting things up, ominously set against various shots of Stonehenge, then it’s time for Denham to confront MacGinnis and we find out what’s really going on. So Andrews’s protracted investigation—which involves local farmer Brian Wilde’s murder trial and a convention to debunk paranormal thinking, specifically MacGinnis’s cult—doesn’t promise a lot of pay-off because the film’s clued the audience in on things he doesn’t know or even suspect.

Andrews even has a separate supporting cast for this subplot, whereas Cummins sticks to the MacGinnis side of things, getting involved with MacGinnis’s sympathetic mother, Athene Seyler.

So most of Demon is rapid exposition—Tourneur gets excellent readings from Andrews and Cummins during their scenes, with this neat trick of delaying reactions so they don’t get in the way of more exposition but they do build up so they’ve got more weight when they do break, sometimes with a nice cut courtesy editor Michael Gordon. When it’s not rapid exposition, the film’s suspense sequences. Tourneur, cinematographer Edward Scaife, and editor Gordon create some spectacular suspense sequences in the film. They’re able to get tension out of MacGinnis offering Andrews a light, but then they’re also able to scale up to full action special effects set pieces too. They can do ominous empty, they can do jumbo action set pieces. Scaife’s night photography is stunning; he and Tourneur do some great work on the suspense here.

Clifton Parker’s music helps too, though not as much as Gordon and whoever did the sound (looks like Charles Crafford). The film teaches Andrews—and the audience—to be afraid of the dark, starting from the first scene after the opening titles. And it’s always night time in Demon. There are some day time scenes in the first act, but pretty soon everyone’s out after dark, whether it’s for a dinner date, a seance, or the paranormal debunking convention. There’s always somewhere for monsters to hide.

Because Demon’s not just a suspense thriller about a Satanic cult out to rid itself of meddling American anti-paranormal psychiatrist, it’s also a monster movie. Maybe. And Tourneur and the crew adeptly pivot between the two genres. It helps the effects are excellent. There’s a quite a bit of process photography during chase scenes, for instance, and it’s always outstanding.

There’s just too much of the exposition in the second act. Even with it “solving” the problem for Andrews, it takes forever while Cummins and presumably MacGinnis are off having a lot more interesting things going on than giving a lecture. If Andrews were better, it might work out. He’s fine, he’s sturdy, but he’s far from compelling. Even with less to do, Cummins manages to be a lot more appealing; Andrews and MacGinnis are both playing jackasses, one of them just happens to be more right than the other about the existence of demons. They play well off each other, with Andrews lighting up for the conflict in a way he doesn’t for the exposition dumps with Cummins.

Excellent direction from Tourneur throughout—even when the narrative is slogging—is key. He likes his jump scares too; while he doesn’t rely on them, he does play with them, trying to keep the audience on their toes but also to jazz up the film after it’s been dragging. It’d be nice for it not to drag, but Tourneur’s compensations work out.

Night of the Demon succeeds, with Tourneur, the crew, and MacGinnis picking up the slack for the script and—consequently—Andrews and Cummins, who always manage to be sympathetic and appealing, but nothing more. It makes the film even more impressive it’s able to get away with not having effective heroes. Good thing it’s so exceptionally well-made.

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946, William Wyler)

If it weren’t for the first half of the film, The Best Years of Our Lives would be a series of vingettes. The film runs almost three hours. Almost exactly the first half is set over two days. The remainder is set over a couple months. Director Wyler and screenwriter Robert E. Sherwood don’t really do much summary in the second half. Subplots run through a series of the vingettes, never all of them–the film’s unequally but definitely split between its three male leads. Wyler and Sherwood reveal develops through attitude and dialogue. Time passes through Dana Andrews’s gradual resignation. Through Harold Russell’s depression. Alternately, I suppose, it also passes through Fredric March and Myrna Loy’s re-familiarization.

The film opens with Andrews, Russell, and March returning from World War II. Dashing Andrews was an Air Force captain, sailor Russell has lost his hands, older guy March was just an Army sergeant. The first ten minutes sets up the characters, their hometown (the fictional, vaguely midwestern Boone City), and the people waiting for them.

The first ten minutes establishes how much of the film is going to be on the actors’ faces. Watching real-life amputee Russell contend with the polite and not polite–among fellow servicemen–dominates. Whatever nervousness Andrews and March are experiencing, they’re always aware of what’s going on with Russell. And they aren’t comfortable. The bond between the three builds with that comfort, which Russell (and Sherwood and Wyler) determinedly demand. Much of the first half of the film is spent examining the three men; both for character development and just plain characters looking at each other. The men are strangers when the film begins, polite ones, but strangers.

Once they arrive home, it gets more complicated. Sure, the trio aren’t looking at each other, but they’re discovering the ground situation. Wyler and Sherwood lay it out for the audience and the characters. All the characters. Best Years focuses on the three men’s return home, but their supporting cast gets a lot of establishing and developing. March’s homecoming to wife Loy and children Teresa Wright and Michael Hall sets up two big subplots and sort of Loy’s character arc. Russell’s return suggests something similiar–he’s got a literal girl next door fiancée (Cathy O’Donnell) waiting for him–but it doesn’t end up being as big. Russell gets less screentime in the second half. The film always returns to him at just the right moment, when he’s been away too long.

He’s got the “simpliest” subplot–his depression and how it affects his relationship with O’Donnell. Andrews has got PTSD a rocky wartime marriage (to Virginia Mayo), and a flirtation with someone he shouldn’t be flirting with. March has got a drinking problem, a work problem (back banking for chickenhawk Ray Collins), as well as feeling uncomfortable at home.

Most of these details get introduced in the first half. Mayo shows up just at the end with some foreshadowing for turmoil, but nothing onscreen. Same goes for March’s work problems. Andrews and March get these subplots second half; Russell doesn’t.

It’s unfortunate but the film’s so good, it gets a pass on that one.

The first half also brings the characters back together. March drags Loy and Wright out on the town, running into Andrews and then Russell. They’re all at Hoagy Carmichael’s bar. Carmichael is great as Russell’s wise, piano-playing uncle. He defuses situations, which Andrews, March, and Russell frequently need.

Even if it’s just making Loy and Wright less annoyed. They–and the audience–don’t really understand the extent of March’s drinking at the start. Because Best Years is slow to reveal its subplots, slow to foreshadow. One of the reasons it can get away with giving Russell so much less (though his eighth billing isn’t okay) is because what it does give him is so good. Because Russell’s so good. Best Years of Our Lives is, spared down, about a bunch of people who really want to cry and never let themselves. Russell’s the only one who gets to go through that on screen.

Meanwhile, Andrews has to combat his stoicism. His arc is this complicated ego one, with the PTSD an undercurrent; along with the romantic troubles.

So Andrews and Russell have the toxic masculinity arcs. March doesn’t. His resignation and rediscovery arc is much quieter, far less dramatic, and awesome.

Because the film’s so long and goes into vignette, the actor giving the best performance isn’t always consistent. Overall, it’s probably March. But Russell. But Andrews. Supporting it’s easily Loy… though Wright and O’Donnell are both outstanding. Loy’s just got the least screentime for her own arc. She’s always supporting someone else’s. So watching her character develop, rarely in close-up, is special.

Because Sherwood and Wyler are great at maintaining and building on details through the subplots. Andrews and Russell, independently and then together, deal with some real homecoming nastiness (as well as general disinterest), but it’s in the March subplot where it dramatically culminates.

Such a good script. Sherwood’s pacing is phenomenal. Even when, for example, Russell’s subplot is almost overdue, the film hasn’t been dragging. Best Years of Our Lives never drags.

Wyler’s direction is precise, deliberate, patient. He’ll have silences–either filled with mundanely urban background or Hugo Friedhofer’s excellent score. He’ll have noisy–almost anywhere outside Carmichael’s bar and March’s apartment is packed with people. He’s nimble too. He’s got this over the shoulder shot he repeats a few times in the third act, with the divine Gregg Toland photography (there’s no other word). He doesn’t use the shot earlier. He does some similar things, at least with how he places the actors, but it’s this distinct stylistic thing he’s moving towards throughout.

The Toland photography is perfect.

It’d be the most jaw-dropping technical feature–and I suppose, really, it is because it’s the photography–but Daniel Mandell’s editing is a masterpiece of smooth, fluid, and emotively considerate cutting. The editing is exquisite, simultaneously bold and subtle.

The Best Years of Our Lives is a remarkable motion picture.

This post is part of the Free For All Blogathon hosted by Theresa of Cinemaven’s Essays From The Couch.

Laura (1944, Otto Preminger)

Laura is a film with multiple twists and a brilliant screenplay by Jay Dratler, Samuel Hoffenstein and Elizabeth Reinhardt but none of it would work without Preminger’s direction of his cast. Preminger’s direction, in terms of composition, is fantastic. Thanks in no small part to cinematographer Joseph LaShelle, every moment of Laura looks wonderful. Preminger has a fabulous way of positioning his actors, particularly Dana Andrews in the first half of the film, to enhance the performance. It’s not quite a trick, though it is separate from the other way Preminger directs the cast.

The film is able to get through its twists and turns, which–with a major exception–are entirely about the characters, not just because of how the actors succeed in those scenes but because of how they, and Preminger, have established their characters throughout. It’s also where the script comes in–for example, Laura works because Andrews and Clifton Webb bond. With the beautifully cut flashback sequence introducing the viewer (and Andrews) to Gene Tierney’s eponymous character, through Webb’s perspective–Louis R. Loeffler is the editor; don’t want to forget him–Preminger is able to sublimely arrange the characters for later revelations. Webb and Andrews play wonderfully off one another. Webb’s erudite snob and Andrews’s mildly laconic police detective are great together. The script goes for gimmicky dialogue; Preminger and the actors sell it thanks to a self-awareness.

Because, even though it’s a mystery, Laura needs a certain amount of melodramatic flair to succeed. David Raksin’s lush, emotional score, along with rainswept New York streets–not to mention the wonderful sets–Laura is far from realistic. Preminger never lets it go too far though. The film runs less than ninety minutes, with it changing tone fifty minutes in; that second half, very different from the first, still occupies the same spaces. The film’s exquisitely constructed.

The film’s major twist is incredibly melodramatic in its plot implications. All that careful construction is what makes it work so well.

And, like I said, that careful construction has to do with the actors as well. Like when Tierney and Andrews get together, their chemistry is perfect. Scene after scene, even as their relationship develops, the chemistry is precise. It’s a little more obvious–as Andrews moons over her–but it’s the same careful way Preminger established Andrews and Webb’s relationship.

All the acting in the film is excellent. Webb’s the best, just because. Andrews and Tierney are both great. Andrews gets to have more fun at the beginning of the film, but it’s only fair because co-star Vincent Price doesn’t get to have much fun until near the end of the film. Price’s good, Judith Anderson’s good. No one else got billed, but Dorothy Adams deserved it as Tierney’s maid.

Laura’s a phenomenal film.

This post is part of the Gene Tierney 95th Birthday Blogathon hosted by Simoa of The Ellie Badge.

Madison Avenue (1962, H. Bruce Humberstone)

Madison Avenue somehow manages to be anorexic but packed. It only runs ninety minutes and takes place over a few years. There’s no makeup–which is probably good since Dana Andrews, Eleanor Parker and Jeanne Crain are all playing at least ten years younger than their ages.

Director Humberstone doesn’t do much in the way of establishing shots–I think there’s one real one. Most of the exteriors are obviously on the backlot (even the real one is probably somewhere on the studio lot). He does have some decent transitions from interior to interior, but he never visually acknowledges all of the time progressions.

And there’s no real conflict. Andrews is an ad man who loses his job and tells his ex-boss (an extremely amused Howard St. John) he’s going to come get his accounts. To do so, Andrews has to team with Parker. The problem with Avenue is its actors are good, its script has some good scenes, but there’s no depth to it. Norman Corwin can write decent back and forth banter, just not a real conversation.

Parker’s got an unfortunate arc, but her performance is fine. She’s really good at the beginning. Andrews is appealing and doesn’t look fifty-four. He looks about forty-five, but he’s probably supposed to be playing thirty-one. Crain looks more contemptuous of her material than the other leads; she does okay.

Nice supporting turn from Kathleen Freeman as Andrews’s secretary.

Avenue’s a studio picture fifteen years too late.

Boomerang! (1947, Elia Kazan)

Boomerang! is a mess. The first half of the film is a misfired docudrama, the second half (or so) is a fantastic courtroom drama. Richard Murphy’s script is such a plotting disaster not even beautifully written scenes and wonderful performances can make up for its problems.

And director Kazan doesn’t help. He embraces the docudrama aspect, having amateurs act alongside regular actors… sometimes even treating them interchangeably. The amateurs are awful, often due to how Kazen directs them.

Worse, Murphy’s only able to make the courtroom stuff work because he’s been intentionally hiding things from the viewer. It’s a terrible, terrible move; if he’d played the story out sequentially instead of keeping so much for reveals, Boomerang! wouldn’t be some lame docudrama, but a complex story about greed, morality and decency.

The first half has a great performance from Lee J. Cobb. Even in the film’s weakest moments, Cobb can do great work. It’s sometimes heartbreaking. The second half has top-billed Dana Andrews, who also has some heartbreaking scenes. He and wife Jane Wyatt’s quiet moments together are wondrous. Boomerang! disappoints because it fails all its actors. Kazan and Murphy could have made something special but aimed low instead.

Also excellent is Sam Levene as a reporter. He bridges the two halves of the picture, along with a political subplot–the country club reform party has taken over from the machine–and is the film’s glue. Or should be.

Great photography from Norbert Brodine too.

Boomerang! just doesn’t work.

The Ox-Bow Incident (1943, William A. Wellman)

The seventy-five minutes of The Ox-Bow Incident are some of the finest in cinema. The film is eventually a solemn examination of the human condition, quiet in its observations, with spare lines of dialogue of profound importance. But before this period in the film, which roughly lasts from twenty minutes in until the end, Ox-Bow is a peculiar Western, far ahead of its time.

As Henry Fonda and Harry Morgan (in his Henry days) ride into the small, empty and nameless town, The Ox-Bow Incident establishes what’s going to be one of its major technical achievements. The use of sound–made even more spectacular later, during the scenes filmed on sets–is amazing, from Alfred Bruzlin and Roger Heman Sr. The dialogue in the opening scene–Lamar Trotti’s script, probably the best thing about Ox-Bow (it’s hard to decide what’s better, Trotti’s writing or Wellman’s direction)–the way Fonda and Morgan deliver it, the way the scene plays out, the way Wellman shoots it. It’s indescribable. I’ve seen Ox-Bow before, but I forgot it was so singular.

When the story does advance, it does quickly–the relaxed opening scene, establishing Fonda as the protagonist, is the only one of its kind in the film. After that scene, the film moves to its conclusion without taking any breaks or offering the viewer any relief. Wellman’s composition incorporates background for action and foreground for non-action, with both incredibly important. But it also keeps the viewer constantly busy, the film an active experience.

Trotti’s adapting a novel, so I’m guessing the one unconnected scene is from it. The scene, featuring more backstory for Fonda, doesn’t seem foreign to the film–even though it’s a big, busy scene and the last one before the film enters its final stage–because of that opening scene. Trotti and Wellman establish right off they’re going to do things a certain way and Fonda running into old flame Mary Beth Hughes for four minutes fits into that style.

Then Dana Andrews and Anthony Quinn appear. The film’s about a lynching (the titular incident), with Andrews and Quinn as two of the lynched. It’s hard to describe how the film works from their appearance to the end because it is so singular. For example, Wellman later gives Fonda his biggest scene without showing his face. The storytelling works; delineating it might prove useful for a scholarly article, but certainly not for an informal response.

Both Andrews and Quinn are fantastic, as is Fonda, as is Morgan. The supporting cast–Harry Davenport and Frank Conroy in particular–are also great. Jane Darwell’s performance, after so many sympathetic roles, as a gung ho lyncher is terrifying. Paul Hurst, Dick Rich, William Eythe as well.

For such a short film, Ox-Bow is brimming with content. The way people talk to each other informs on their existing relationships, with Trotti never spending the time to expound. He doesn’t have to… it’s a wonderful script.

I’m trying to think of other amazing moments from Wellman, but after a point, every shot in the film is an amazing moment. Arthur C. Miller’s photography, instead of being constrained by the set shooting, is lush. The depth of each frame captivates.

The film ends on a strange note. Hopeful but resigned. I can’t believe I’d forgotten the film is so remarkable.

Canyon Passage (1946, Jacques Tourneur)

Canyon Passage starts out strange. Dana Andrews shows up in 1850s Portland (Oregon) and, after some character establishing, fends off someone breaking into his room. It got me thinking later if the unseen event leading up to the intruder is actually the film’s dramatic vehicle, the event setting off the action. Because Canyon Passage is an odd narrative. The film’s presented, in its first act, as an unfolding exploration of the characters’ situations. Andrews and Susan Hayward introduce the viewer to the film’s setting, to the lives and hardships of the supporting cast.

But Canyon Passage keeps an even tone throughout, never hinting at its action-oriented conclusion. Most of it is straight drama as Andrews romances Patricia Roc to the dismay of both Victor Cutler and Hayward. Hayward’s engaged to Andrews’s best friend, played by Brian Donlevy, however. Those last two sentences suggest Canyon Passage is something of a soap opera, but it isn’t at all. The attraction between Hayward and Andrews is gradually and gently developed; the film’s focus is far more on the friendship between Andrews and Donlevy.

I’d forgotten Jacques Tourneur directed Canyon Passage until the opening titles, and given his noir-heavy 1940s filmography, it seemed like an odd fit. But the complicated friendship between Donlevy and Andrews–Andrews’s feelings of responsibility, Donlevy’s resentment at Andrews having to be the response one due to his success–is really at the film’s center. Sort of.

The problem with identifying Passage‘s central focus is how little it has of one. Just like I was trying to identify narrative features, I was also trying to figure out some kind of rule for the film’s scenes–as in, who has to be in the scene for it to be a scene. Andrews disappears for a little while once his romance with Roc is established, with Donlevy and his gambling addiction taking over (the consideration given to Donlevy’s character, who’s basically just weak-willed, is incredibly sensitive and also sets Passage apart). But there’s little rhyme and reason to who gets a scene and who doesn’t–it’s probably something as simple as the source novel focusing on more of the supporting cast and adapting their salient scenes, but the film suggests it isn’t. It suggests a certain lyricism to its unfolding events.

The acting is all spectacular. Andrews plays the conflicted leading man better than anyone and his muted attraction to Hayward, present but clouded from their first scene, is fantastic. Hayward’s great too, with her reciprocal attraction being more of a complicated narrative development. Donlevy’s best scenes are probably when he’s on his own (Donlevy’s always seems more a leading man, even when he’s not the protagonist)–but his scenes with Andrews are singular. The supporting cast–Andy Devine, Hoagy Carmichael and Lloyd Bridges, in particular–are excellent. As the villain, Ward Bond is terrifying. Bond plays him with a mix of evil and stupidity–the stupidity making the evil even more scary.

Tourneur’s direction is great–only during the big travel scene in the first act does the editing get choppy, otherwise Tourneur’s got lots of good coverage. The film shot on location in Oregon and it shows (though Crater Lake isn’t as close to Jacksonville as the film suggests). Edward Cronjager’s Technicolor cinematography is beautiful.

And it doesn’t hurt Carmichael contributes some songs either.

The film starts solid, but just gets better and better. It’s great.

Berlin Correspondent (1942, Eugene Forde)

Fox did the best 1940s propaganda films. Cranked them out, I imagine. I’ve only seen a couple others and then Hitchcock’s awful effort, Saboteur.

Berlin Correspondent might steal its name from Hitchcock’s excellent Foreign Correspondent but that’s about it. Foreign is sort of globetrotting. Berlin is… Berlin-trotting. Dana Andrews is great, as Dana Andrews usually is, and the female lead is decent: Virginia Gilmore. She did very little, but she’s kind of like the Fox-variant of Jane Wyman. Sig Ruman shows up in a funny part and there’s a great Nazi bad guy (Martin Kosleck, a native German who left when the Nazis came into power).

Berlin Correspondent runs almost seventy minutes and is never boring. The film asks the audience to accept a great deal of stupidity, but it’s fine. We invest in the performances and the promise of an amusing diversion. It’s a film that exemplifies the lost genre of a good way to waste some time….

(Though I did have schoolwork to do, so I didn’t actually have any time to waste).