Impulse (1974, William Grefé)

It’s an insult to hacks to describe Impulse director Grefé as such. There are very few directors with less sense of how to direct a movie (or anything) than Grefé. But then he’s simpatico with cinematographer Edmund Gibson at least in terms of skill. Grefé’s got terrible shots, Gibson shoots them terribly. But Gibson’s credited as Edwin, so apparently, at some point, he realized maybe he was impulsive working on Impulse.

Grefé kind of—and only because every other option is exhausted—but he reminds of a TV commercial director. Like, a seventies TV commercial director. He’s got way too much headroom, and he never does close-ups during the protracted expository scenes. Outside a handful of action sequences and field trips, it’s primarily people standing or sitting inside talking to one another. Impulse filmed in Tampa, Florida, but it’s supposed to be in a much smaller place. Maybe. Maybe Shatner just drove from one side of town to the other, looking for his next mark.

More on Shatner in a bit, I promise. But there aren’t any real exteriors. Either the producers couldn’t figure out how to get permits, couldn’t afford them but then also couldn’t just guerilla the shots. Impulse is artless low-budget filmmaking. If the whole thing was about getting Shatner to wear a bunch of silly, silly, silly seventies outfits—silly—to embarrass him later, it might make sense. Except in 1974, the producers wouldn’t have known Shatner can survive anything–even seventies Florida fashion.

So it doesn’t look anywhere near as good even a TV movie from the same period. Impulse is unpleasant to view. But it’s surprisingly well-edited. Editor Julio C. Chávez initially seems as unimpressive as everyone else involved, then there’s a long shot beach scene, and it’s ADR, but it’s not bad. And then there’s some sound work where it ends, kind of breaking the third wall. Like, someone’s not hearing a conversation, then the conversation directly addresses them, and they hear.

It’s wild. It’s not good; it’s bad, but it’s at least something different.

Then the last half hour, which has Shatner’s mentally unwell gigolo conman breaking down and attacking the entire supporting cast… the editing’s really good. The scenes are still crap—especially Gibson’s day-for-night, which is ghastly—but the cutting’s nice. So, kudos to Chávez.

Otherwise, there’s Ruth Roman.

Impulse is just degrees of bad performance and how close the needle gets to embarrassing. Shatner’s spins around the whole time occasionally slows down a little, but then reliably zooms. For terrible camp Shatner, Impulse delivers.

But Roman’s all right. She’s the local rich lady whose mansion gets the only establishing shot, and her best friend is young widow Jennifer Bishop. Bishop has a late tween daughter, Kim Nicholas, who cuts school to go moon over her father’s gravestone. She even projectile cries on it. She’s very sad.

So Bishop doesn’t date.

At least not until stud Shatner arrives. Of course, he neglects to tell everyone he first met Nicholas, giving her a ride to the graveyard one day. But don’t worry, Shatner’s got no further designs on Nicholas than killing her for being a tattle rat.

Nicholas is bad, Bishop’s bad. Harold Sakata—Odd Job from Goldfinger—cameos as Shatner’s former partner-in-crime who wants in on the take. He drives around an RV with a giant “Karate Pete” sign on it; like on the crime job. It’s silly.

Sakata just embarrasses himself. He’s at least having fun. Or what amounts to it in Impulse.

For the Shatner-inclined, Impulse is required viewing, like Portrait of the Artist at a Low Point. It’s also early-to-mid-seventies-low budget Shatner, so it’s hard to be too upset at the film. It’s always bad, it’s always strange, it’s always problematic. From the start—the flashback where young Shatner (Chad Walker, in his only credit) kills his mom’s violent john, defending them, but she resents him because women are awful. Only they won’t be later; they’ll do everything Shatner says; except Nicholas because kids are terrible. Anyway.

It’s poorly shot, but it’s also exceptionally mean to Walker.

Then the opening titles are actually incompetent. The title cards pause the action, but they’re not in line with the current action. They’re mini-flashbacks. It’s inane, in addition to incompetent. Another reason Chávez is an unexpected boon.

Impulse is awful. Of course, it’s awful. It exists just to be awful.

Except for Roman and Chávez, obviously.

Strangers on a Train (1951, Alfred Hitchcock)

Strangers on a Train is many things, but it’s principally an action thriller. Director Hitchcock never quite ignores any of its other aspects; he’s just most enthusiastic about the action he and editor William H. Ziegler execute. For example, the third act is entirely action set pieces, one to another, with an occasional bit of light humor thrown in. The light comedy ought to be more complex because the stakes are high; Hitchcock pulls it off thanks to running with light humor throughout, even when it didn’t help a scene; it plays off later.

Train’s best action set piece is the finale, which involves a high-stakes fight scene on a merry-go-round. The film’s incredibly “small,” principally in a handful of locations, moving its cast between them as needed. Plus the train. If it weren’t for the New York to Washington train, there wouldn’t be a movie at all.

The film opens with stars Farley Granger and Robert Walker on such a train. They happen upon each other and become traveling pals for a meal, with wealthy Walker inserting himself into Granger’s day and, soon, affairs. Walker’s awkward but seemingly harmless, and Granger is used to placating the rich and powerful. Granger’s a proto-yuppie (the club tennis pro made good), Walker’s the defective blue blood. Walker knows all about Granger—married to an unfaithful wife (Kasey Rogers), while courting a senator’s daughter, Ruth Roman, on his way into politics. The only problem Walker’s got is dad Jonathan Hale being a pain in his ass. But wouldn’t it be great if both their problems could disappear? Walker’s even got a plan for it: swap murders to confound the police with no motive.

Granger placates Walker’s eccentricity—in for a penny, in for a pound when you’re trying to suck up to the rich—and thinks nothing more about it. Walker, on the other hand, is convinced he’s got all his problems solved. All he’s got to do is get rid of Granger’s problem, and Granger will return the favor.

The film will split its time between Walker, Granger, and Roman, with Roman being the nearest to a protagonist. Walker gets the spotlight, his villain transfixing and often inexplicable. Granger’s the straight man, a little too simple to navigate the resulting troubles on his own, but stoic enough to know he’s got to fix his own problems. Otherwise, he might disgrace Roman and the senator father (Leo G. Carroll); it’s unthinkable since they’re basically his patrons.

He needs patrons to get away from his small city hometown, where his wife Rogers cats around in public view, pregnant with another man’s baby but ready to move to D.C. just to ruin Granger’s life. Train’s got a problem with women, especially if they’re not rich, glamorous, or wear glasses. But thanks to the film’s detached and askew narrative distance, eventually, those characterizations align with the characters’ projections.

Though for a while, it’s just women in glasses—Rogers, for instance—are harpies put on Earth to torment good men trying to be upwardly mobile. The glasses turn out to be a device for set pieces, a fine example of Hitchcock ignoring or oblivious to certain connotations to later deliver on stylized action. It works. But mostly because when the glasses bit comes back, it’s with Patricia Hitchcock as Roman’s precious younger sister. Hitchcock’s a bobbysoxer goth outwardly, really just a cute blue blood, she’s obsessed with murders. One hundred percent, she’d have a true-crime podcast today.

But she also wears glasses, which becomes an issue for Walker, who’s got PTSD from his encounter with Rogers, specifically her glasses.

Hitchcock’s the film’s second most memorable character after Walker—arguably Granger comes in fourth, behind Roman, who’s invaluable in moving the plot forward. At the same time, Granger hems and haws so much it’s a plot point. No one can believe Granger is actually active, so it raises suspicion when he tries it.

Roman’s also more critical because she’s the most sympathetic perspective. The relationship between Granger and Walker is endlessly peculiar, the two men sharing an unspoken bond, but not a simple case of alter egos. They’re both deceptive, and their interactions together are the only times they’re willingly honest. They both will make exceptions, for Roman and Rogers, but not without significant hesitation. Though their respective uncertainties are for very different reasons.

There’s not a bad performance in the film; everyone’s able to find their own space as Walker dominates the screen. Walker’s got as many knockout scenes as the film’s got action set pieces. It’s hard to decide on the best scene; it might be a matter of personal preference—I’m partial to him and Rogers’s disturbing flirtation scene, as he woos her from a distance. It’s the only time Walker ever exhibits lust, and it’s bewitching stuff.

Roman starts as a stock girlfriend part, but it gets better, with her performance doing most of the work. Hitchcock’s great. Granger’s good. It’s his story but not his movie. Carroll’s fun as the senator, but he’s barely in it. He, Hitchcock, and Roman are a fine proto-sitcom family, full of warm and wry banter. Marion Lorne’s delightful as Walker’s confused mother.

Great cameo from John Brown.

Raymond Chandler and Czenzi Ormonde get the screenwriter credits—with Whitfield Cook doing the adaptation from the Patricia Highsmith novel. The writing’s the only place the film ever gets toothsome, but more because Hitchcock’s not interested in the scenes yet doesn’t rush them. Again, it’ll all inform the final payoff.

Robert Burks’s cinematography and Dimitri Tiomkin’s score are both excellent. Tiomkin’s got some great score; Burks has got some great lighting. Thanks to the Hitchcocks, Walker, Roman, Granger, and everyone really… Strangers on a Train is a singular, sensational motion picture.

Champion (1949, Mark Robson)

Champion is a boxing picture. It ends with a big fight, as boxing pictures are wont to do. However, as the fight starts and the film cuts between all the people Kirk Douglas’s Champion has wrong, the film isn’t asking the viewer to root for the protagonist. Douglas is a bad guy. The entire third act is about how Douglas is a bad guy. He’s an even worse guy than the film’s been establishing for almost the entire runtime.

Except it’s a boxing picture. And, at some point during that big, final fight, without the film even doing anything to make Douglas sympathetic, he gets to be the hero again. He gets to be the champion. It’s one of the film’s most successful moments, thanks to director Robson, photographer Franz Planer, editor Harry W. Gerstad, and Douglas.

Unfortunately, it can’t save the film, which meanders through most of the third act after a disappointing second. Robson and screenwriter Carl Foreman are able to keep up some energy as Douglas fights his way to the top–after romancing, marrying, and abandoning Ruth Roman–but eventually it runs out of steam. There’s a hint at a love triangle between Douglas, Marilyn Maxwell, and Lola Albright. Instead, there are some decent scenes to avoid having to pursue that storyline. Almost everything in the second half of the film seems like a contrivance to position the film. Nothing Douglas does has any weight or even consequence.

Some of the problem are the players in the second half. Arthur Kennedy is his brother. Kennedy, walking with a cane, is the weaker one. He spends some time as Douglas’s conscience, but as the film goes on, gets less and less to do. Foreman’s script is interested in tearing away Douglas’s conscience–maybe even Douglas’s humanity; it just does so with some thin characters. Maxwell’s just a groupie, even though she shows business acumen. Albright’s the wife of Douglas’s manager (Luis Van Rooten in a thankless cuckold role); she starts with some depth, but then loses it due to Douglas’s animal magnetism.

And Douglas is fantastic, even when it’s obvious his ego’s in the way. He gets a monologue at the end, which Robson doesn’t know how to integrate into the rest of the film, though he and Planer do a fine enough job shooting it. Great editing again from Gerstad, who also gets to do a couple fantastic montage sequences. But Douglas is a despicable (and worse), utterly compelling protagonist. During the final fight, as it becomes clear he’s going to get the sympathy, warranted or not, requested or not, I actually resented the film a little. It’s so effectively made, it knowingly overrides the script’s intention.

Then Douglas has his well-acted but utterly misplaced monologue and all the problems of the third act catch up during the lull and it goes out on a forced note.

Fine support from Kennedy, Roman, and Albright. Maxwell just doesn’t get enough to do. Paul Stewart is great as Douglas’s trainer; Robson even lets him move the present action along three years with a voiceover in the montage sequence. It’s great stuff.

Dimitri Tiomkin’s music gets to be a little much at time, but it’s always accompanying technical success so it gets a pass for the most part. Maybe if the theme weren’t so cloying.

Champion’s superbly acted, superbly made. It’s just not superbly written. Something–Douglas’s ego, Foreman’s plotting–got in the way.

This post is part of the Kirk Douglas 100th Birthday Blogathon hosted by Karen Of Shadows & Satin.

Three Secrets (1950, Robert Wise)

Three Secrets plays like a knock-off of A Letter to Three Wives, only without the writing. Secrets‘s problem is mostly with the writing. There are the three women–all of whom have secrets, except actually only two of them–played by Eleanor Parker, Patricia Neal, and Ruth Roman. The secret is each put a child up for adoption (on the same day) and now the child might be alone on top of a mountain, following a plane crash killing his adoptive parents. The kid’s turning six on the day of the present action, so there are three flashbacks to the women’s past–except only two of them tie together, which leaves the third–Ruth Roman’s–sticking out, just like her character sticks out. She’s particularly mistreated by the film, sort of disregarded, and if director Robert Wise had properly configured the film, she’d be even smaller (and maybe not played by Ruth Roman, who’s good, but deserves a better role). Properly, Three Secrets would juxtapose Eleanor Parker and Patricia Neal. Parker’s got a husband (not the baby’s father), a loving but overbearing mother, and she can’t have kids anymore (which the husband doesn’t know, so maybe that secret’s the third one, since Roman doesn’t have a secret). Neal’s a successful journalist whose career got in the way of her marriage. Had the film been about Neal becoming her own story and Parker’s conflicts with her mother and so on, Three Secrets might have been something better.

It wouldn’t have been great, however, since Wise doesn’t know what to do without a big budget. Three Secrets is visibly cheaper–lots of backdrops standing in for nature, lots of indoor shooting–and Wise doesn’t do anything interesting to make the film visually dynamic. He shoots it straight and unimaginatively. For film buffs, there is a sequence in Three Secrets Wise later did again in The Andromeda Strain. The film does show a pulse–when Parker’s family conflicts are off-screen–once some reporters show up. It’s a great newspaper or radio movie, but it’s not supposed to be about the journalists, it’s supposed to be about the three women. When they get together at the end, for maybe fifteen minutes, the scenes are good. Neal’s the central character and she’s good with both Parker and Roman, but she’s so level-headed throughout, the other two women have a couple nice moments the film should have expanded on. The most interesting part of the present action would have been the three women sitting around worried, but we only get a few minutes of it.

The acting from the three women is all good. Depending on the scene, Parker or Neal is better. The supporting cast is mostly in the flashbacks and of that cast, Ted de Corsia is good. In the present action, Edmon Ryan as a rival reporter and Katherine Warren as Parker’s mother are both excellent.

Three Secrets takes place over a nerve-racking thirty-two hours and it never gives the audience a single moment of dread. Everything is positively resolved for everyone, which is fine enough, but it happens immediately. There isn’t even the pretense of anyone thinking or considering their life-changing decisions. The film needed to be written as a play, just to get the pacing right, then filmed. As it stands, it has some good acting and some strange directorial choices.