Two years before The Blob, a British science-fiction film from Hammer Films posited a similar type of monster: a formless, semi-sentient mass that absorbs energy to survive, always searching for further nourishment to help it grow.  Now, I’ve always felt that the Blob was the coolest, ultimate monster because it simply exists — it has no consciousness or soul, no physical weakness to exploit, and it cannot be destroyed.  The “X” in X the Unknown shares some of those traits, although instead of zipping around space, X lives inside the molten core of the Earth. And instead of absorbing people like the Blob does to increase its mass, X simply burns them to death with its inherent radiation. Evidently it only feeds on energy sources that, like itself, involve radiation.  X is described by atomic scientist Dr. Royston (Dean Jagger) as “radioactive mud,” which seems fairly accurate but does not do justice to the horrific nature of the subterranean beastie.  In fact, the film’s biggest weakness is that it isn’t as sensational as a typical American version would have been.  British sci-fi is usually underplayed in terms of sensationalism, and that is certainly the case here, despite the cataclysm depicted in its poster art. Even so, however, there are plenty of chills, cool effects (a few of them rather nasty!), some scientific gobbledy-gook to explain the danger and how that danger is to be vanquished, and some impressive suspense.  Nor does Leslie Norman’s film shy away from describing the consequences to anyone who comes in contact with X and its lethal radiation.

The scenario (by Hammer vet Jimmy Sangster) suggests that the emergence of such a creature (or, perhaps more accurately, an event) occurs every fifty years or so, when enough gravity is exerted upon the Earth by the Moon to unbalance the core. At that juncture, the possibility exists, according to Dr. Royston, that the unknown event (X) gathers enough force to break through the Earth’s crust and roam free.  As long as it can find energy, it will remain on the planet’s surface; failing that, it will retreat back into the core, where the energy exists to sustain it.

Of course, Royston’s theory relies on the development of atomic power to attract X and keep it from retreating back from where it came.  It is precisely because atomic facilities are nearby that X becomes a threat to humanity; atomic science is also mankind’s best hope for destroying X.  That dichotomy is at the center of classical science-fiction; the science in question not only brings about the evil, but offers the only manner to dispose of it.  This became a primary lesson of the sci-fi films of the 1950s, especially after Them! first linked the effects of atomic radiation to accelerated growth rates in nature in 1954.  After producers realized that they could believably blame giant grasshoppers or gila monsters on atomic or nuclear power, the genre exploded with possibility.  And as these films were made and released barely a decade after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki blasts in Japan, many questions still swirled around the effects of radiation on the natural world and the fate of humanity.

Theorizing a monster attracted to such dangerous radiation, and then using it to injure or kill people, is an ingenious dramatic creation.  Likewise, giving the monster no personality or conscience but instead revealing it to be a horrible force of nature is also ingenious.  It grants the thing a neutral but relentless nature that is quite unnerving.  The police and scientists investigating reports of people being badly burned and atomic material disappearing from secure locations have no idea what is happening because the situation is unprecedented and seemingly disregards the laws of what is known.  And that is the real power of X — or of any satisfactory movie mystery — that its basis remains unknown.  For a long time, all anyone knows is that a mysterious force is burning people in the dark Scottish highlands.

The one person who puts everything together is Dr. Adam Royston.  When Jimmy Sangster first wrote the script, Royston was supposed to be Dr. Bernard Quatermass.  But Nigel Kneale, who had created the Quatermass character years earlier and who was unhappy with the casting of American actor Brian Donlevy as the British scientist in the feature film The Quatermass Xperiment (1955) did not allow his character to be used in a sequel that he did not write (Kneale did supply the story and script for a second Quatermass feature, Enemy from Space, in 1957, with Donlevy once again starring as the British scientist).  Thus, X the Unknown is the Quatermass adventure that isn’t, a film that, despite Kneale’s objections, fits quite nicely in between the two “official” Quatermass titles.

I find Dean Jagger’s portrayal of Royston much better than Brian Donlevy’s brash portraiture of Quatermass.  I like how Royston admits he doesn’t know why things are occurring at several points; all he can do is hypothesize.  Royston, unlike his boss at the atomic works, John Elliott (Edward Chapman) has the ability to allow his imagination to run free and adapt to new ideas.  Elliott would not admit the possibility that X could exist until he saw it with his own eyes, and even then he would still doubt because his understanding of science would not permit such a thing to exist.  But Royston believes what the evidence presents, and his calm understanding of the forces involved may be enough to stop the rampage.

Jagger is ably supported by the stuffy Chapman and especially by pragmatic Leo McKern as Inspector McGill, an investigator who instinctively grasps that Royston is closer to the truth than Elliott.  McKern lends the story needed gravitas, just as he would five years later in the underrated The Day the Earth Caught Fire.  McGill helps find the facts, asking the right questions and prodding the scientists to actively pursue the truth, wherever it may lead.

The end result is a film that slowly, gradually, moves from covering a routine military training exercise to chronicling a suspenseful showdown between human science and a powerful force of nature. Like its contemporaries both in England and here in the States, it saves its views of the monster to late in the drama, and those views may not seem particularly impressive to modern audiences.  Yet the film is well directed by Leslie Norman, effectively mixing horrific moments and little bits of comedy into its drama, progressively accelerating the pace and amplifying the suspense.  It contains a number of shots of flesh melting off of the skeletons of X’s victims, which must have been quite shocking at the time.  And the whole thing ends with a bang, back at the place where the story begins.

X the Unknown isn’t a great movie but it is a highly creative, imaginative and effective science-fiction story brought to vivid life by people who obviously wanted to make it work.  And while I still favor The Blob for several reasons, I really enjoy this little movie too, and I like it more than either of the Donlevy Quatermass adventures that surround it.  ☆ ☆ ☆.  September 2012.

Like a lot of folks I am not a big fan of lawyers.  But movies about lawyers are often quite good because there is so much inherent conflict and drama revolving around the law, its practitioners and its consequences.  One of the good movies about lawyers is Michael Apted’s Class Action (1991), which relies upon the plot point (or gimmick, if one is cynical) of father and daughter lawyers on the opposite sides of a trial case.

Sure, it’s a gimmick to pit a father and daughter against each other in court, but the superior script uses that as a base from which to launch its audacious, compelling drama. And with actors like the great Gene Hackman and the terrific Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio as the leads, fireworks result and dramatic rewards are many. I would rate this as better than most of the John Grisham legal thrillers, although the focus here leans toward the personal relationships than the legal maneuvering — at least until the final act.

Jedediah Ward (Hackman) is a firebrand in the courtroom, using emotion to sway juries to win cases.  His daughter Margaret (Mastrantonio) is logical, eschewing her father’s grandstanding ways in favor of cold hard facts and relentless manipulation of the law.  Their estrangement and continuous battling eventually has devastating consequences on Margaret’s mother (Joanna Merlin), who has tried to keep peace between her husband and daughter for too many years.  Tragedy strikes, leaving father and daughter even farther apart than ever before, and on opposite sides of a case that defines their legal and moral philosophies.

While Hackman is the nominal star of the piece, the narrative follows Mastrantonio’s character more closely.  This is because her character arc is fluid, and the legal dynamic in which she finds herself (she works at a very large, prestigious law firm) inherently carries greater drama.  Margaret is bidding for a partnership at the firm, and carrying on with her supervisor Michael Grazier (Colin Friels); not for advancement, but because he is really the only person she knows who can identify with her personal and career goals.  She accepts the case against her father’s wishes primarily to beat him at his own game.

The script, an original story by Carolyn Shelby, Christopher Ames and Samantha Shad, emphasizes the characters, contrasting the legal styles of its protagonists and really delving into the personal mess between the two of them.  The dialogue is real, sharp, sometimes cuttingly so, and meaningful.  Some movies play at drama, but this one convincingly builds its characters with big egos, multiple flaws and a wonderful capacity for both self-loathing and forgiveness.  Despite a conclusion that perhaps too simply concludes its legal case Class Action is quite powerful as a family drama.

Its greatest asset is the acting talent of its leads.  At the top of his game is Gene Hackman, as charming and charismatic as a legendary lawyer should be. Hackman bubbles with egotism in the part, dancing and flirting with abandon, seemingly floating through life without a worry, only to see his character’s life turn achingly sour and having to rethink his entire philosophy.  I’ve liked Hackman since his early days in stiff movies like Marooned; in the ’70s and ’80s he was perhaps our finest actor.  I know De Niro and Pacino and Nicholson are considered the go-to guys for that era, but Hackman was just as good if not better in a series of classic and not-so classic films. He is the type of actor who made every script better whether it was comedy, action or drama.  And unlike the aforementioned actors, all of whom are great in their own right, Hackman seems like a regular guy, someone who works normal jobs and has a very ordinary life.  I think of Hackman as the modern-day Spencer Tracy in terms of his talent and disposition and range of parts.  And that’s a compliment.

As good as Hackman is, it’s still Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio’s movie.  Mastrantonio is excellent as Margaret, downplaying her beauty in favor of emphasizing her sharp intelligence.  It’s a terrifically written role and Mastrantonio makes it her own with genuine warmth, grace and gumption.  She is thoroughly convincing in every aspect of the character, works beautifully with Hackman and her other costars and truly provides the emotional foundation for the story.  Mastrantonio never maintained the stardom she acquired from Scarface, The Color of Money or The Abyss, but for a while she was a really good actress, and this movie proves it.

Another impressive aspect of the film, especially during its first half, is its take on the lawyers who populate its drama.  The script neither sanctifies nor demonizes them, but details how people skilled in manipulation are able to skirt moral issues in order to achieve very precise law-abiding rulings.  Some of them, like Jedediah Ward, are supremely idealistic, but most, such as the sharks that swim through the corridors of Margaret’s workplace, are simply looking for their next fat meal.  The film uses this one particular case, which involves people injured through an auto maker’s negligence, to examine and explore various degrees of the process of law. Ultimately, the film decrees (through the words of one of its characters, which I am paraphrasing) that if right is to win in court, it better have a good lawyer.

Class Action recognizes and openly discusses the financial values that power the court system; in fact, it is a financial decision that led the auto maker to neglect a critical fix that would have spared more than one hundred victims from preventable car fires. In this way the film is definitely anti-big business, arguing that corporations have a moral obligation to prevent injury even when it would cost more to fix problems than to settle lawsuits.  I applaud this message because it still seems relevant today, and corporations still need oversight to prevent them from choosing profit over people.  Sure, it’s only a movie, but it is movies like this one that sensibly and dramatically depict a societal pattern that ought to be widely recognized and watched.  And while the film’s conclusion involving the case is too simplistic — rarely are such “smoking guns” to be found — the story nicely balances its personal and professional aspects, having its characters question virtually everything about the direction of their lives and careers.

Some movies succeed on the power of their stories, others on the appeal of their characters.  The best, of course, mix and blend these and other ingredients into an irresistible stew of character, conflict, narrative and significance.  Class Action is primarily a very strong character piece, with a very interesting story to surround them.  It also boasts nice supporting performances from Laurence Fishburne, Donald Moffat and Colin Friels, plus the opportunity to watch Gene Hackman dance up a storm.  It’s a winner all the way around.  ☆ ☆ ☆.  August 2012.

This review is a reprint of an article in my very first issue of Filmbobbery way back in the summer of 1999, with a couple of corrections and other edits.

George M. Cohan was born to a vaudeville family on July 4th (actually July 3rd, but he always claimed the 4th later in life) in 1878 and within a dozen years was the star of the family show, with great success in the title role of Peck’s Bad Boy.  He began writing songs and then shows to go around them, eventually mounting the first, Little Johnny Jones, in 1904.  At age 26, Cohan was, overnight, the toast of Broadway.

Over the next twenty years Cohan produced, wrote and starred in more than forty Broadway shows, most of which were quite successful.  He even took the time to star in Eugene O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness! in 1932.  His last role (and another huge success) was a lampooning of President Roosevelt in I’d Rather Be Right in 1937-38.  Regarded as the original song and dance man, George M. Cohan’s influence upon live theater is incalculable.  Theater evolved from a series of unrelated musical numbers and comedy skits into a structured narrative, partly due to the energetic Irishman.

With more than thirty years of music and personal drama to draw upon, Cohan’s career was a treasure trove waiting to be plundered by movie producers.  Cohan, however, was waiting for the right pirate.  He refused all offers to film his story until Warner Bros. made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: $50,000, approval of the script, and a star he admired, James Cagney.

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) works because of James Cagney.  Once in a while an actor finds just the right role, one which seems specifically tailored to his or her talents.  Such is the case here.  Cagney loved musical theater and had actually appeared in a few musicals (Footlight Parade, Something to Sing About) earlier in his career.  Frequent co-star Pat O’Brien called him “just a dancer gone wrong.”  Yet Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy is a revelation.  People expecting the hoodlum of The Public Enemy or The Roaring Twenties were amazed at Cagney’s energy and aptitude for dancing.  He sings, he dances, he entertains, he acts – and he reaches the pinnacle of his long career.  He’s not the only one.  Released in 1942, Yankee Doodle Dandy is the career pinnacle for many of the people involved in its production.

Yankee Doodle Dandy tells the life story of the most famous Cohan with style, wit, homespun charm, old-fashioned patriotism and superb attention to detail. The film’s framing device has Cohan being called to the White House after his debut in I’d Rather Be Right, afraid President Roosevelt isn’t happy with his portrayal.  Roosevelt, however, is overjoyed to present Cohan with the Congressional Gold Medal (Cohan calls it the Congressional Medal of Honor) for his lifetime of patriotic duty and contributions to the American way of life, and presses the entertainer to tell him the story of his life.

One of the many joys of the movie is the atmosphere and intricate detail in the early vaudeville scenes, which feature Walter Huston as the elder Cohan and Rosemary DeCamp as George’s mother.  George and sister Josie are each portrayed by two kids (at ages 6 and 12) before the roles shift to James and his sister Jeanne Cagney.

There are several effective vignettes in this section of the film which detail the difficult and not-so-rewarding life of the theater, yet romanticize it all the same.  Music from the turn of the century is performed by the Cohan family, giving the audience a crash course in vaudeville.  The Peck’s Bad Boy play sequence is especially strong.  It begins with the end of the play, showing how much fun theater can be for both performers and audience, then displays just how much influence George’s performance had as the neighborhood kids teach Peck’s bad boy a lesson after he boasts, “I can still lick any kid in town!”

The film then amply displays the Cohan arrogance as George loses the family a plum job due to his tremendous ego.  His father decides to punish the boy, but his mother intervenes.  ”Not on the hand, he has to play the violin!  Not on the mouth, he has to sing!”  Cohan Sr. then puts the boy over knee and says, “Here’s one place without any talent!,” and justly spanks some sense into his son.

When James Cagney assumes the role of George, the film evolves from an entertaining biography of the Cohan family to a tour-de-force about a musical genius who changed the face of Broadway seemingly by the sheer force of his will.  Cagney’s enthusiasm is evident throughout the film.  He clearly loved the project, had great respect for Cohan, and relished the chance to put to rest rumors of his communist sympathies.  For how could a man who plays ultra-patriotic George M. Cohan possibly be a Red?

The role was more challenging than any in years for the actor.  He was able to exercise his long-dormant musical talents, especially in the show-stopping eleven-minute Little Johnny Jones sequence, which feature two of Cohan’s best-known songs, “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “Give My Regards to Broadway,” and spotlights Cagney’s curiously wonderful stiff-legged dancing technique.  This sequence is the film’s most memorable and stands on its own against any other single musical number ever filmed.  Because it tells the story of Johnny Jones’ fall and vindication, it has an emotional impact which musical numbers generally lack.

It isn’t just the big musical numbers that make this film a classic.  Time is taken to create lots of small, delicate, tender moments that balance the larger-than-life elements of the Cohan story.  One of my favorites is when Cagney is at home with Mary (Joan Leslie), and he demonstrates the song that he has written about her, for her to sing in his next show.  Cagney gently speaks the lyrics, almost as poetry, to the woman he loves.  Then, as she sings the melody for the first time while playing it on the piano, he speaks the first word or so of every verse, helping her along.  For all of Cagney’s Irish bluster, there are plenty of such quiet, realistic touches in his portrayal.

Once Cohan is established as Broadway’s resident genius, the film moves on to his patriotism, as he writes such jingoistic songs as “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “Over There.”  There’s a great little scene where Cohan tries to enlist, only to be told that he’s too old to fight and too valuable to lose in the war.  He goes on to give a brief demonstration of his stamina which puts the military men to shame.  It must be the patriotic element of the film which has kept some people from embracing it.  My wife Barb, for instance, doesn’t like the film very much, complaining that, “It’s too patriotic.”  While it is true that Yankee Doodle Dandy has a strong current of patriotism running throughout, I don’t find it intrusive; to me, it’s just a facet of Cohan’s character.

That element also provides some of the more moving vignettes.  The sequence when Cohan hears a three-note motif which he then translates into “Over There” is just good filmmaking, especially when during its premiere the lights go out and Cohan exhorts the troops to use headlights to light the stage to keep the show going.  That incident is based on fact and, with the stirring male chorus, is quite powerful.

Cohan felt that the U.S.A. was just about the greatest place on the planet, and he made sure to reflect that attitude in his songs and shows.  His belief was that many other people — simple, honest people — agreed with his outlook and loved to celebrate all the wonderful aspects of the U.S.A. in his shows.  His massive successes proved that he was right, though many of the critics of the time savaged his shows because of their attitudes.  Cohan’s nationalism is certainly emphasized in the film, which was in production when Pearl Harbor was attacked.  The cast and crew looked upon the Cohan story as one which anybody from any walk of life could identify with and enjoy, and one which they tried to make as inspiring as possible.  I think they succeeded admirably.

At the end of his life story Cohan is presented with the Congressional Gold Medal by President Roosevelt, the first entertainer to be awarded that high honor.  Cagney responds with Cohan’s signature exit line, “My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you, and I assure you, I thank you.”  After the presidential interview Cagney descends a White House staircase and begins a truly impromptu tap dance — an image that defines Cohan’s inner pride and happiness better than any other — and a sight that usually moves me to tears.  The film gives that moment of sentimentality a harder edge with its final scene, wherein Cohan finds a parade of soldiers passing by the White House as he leaves.  The soldiers are singing “Over There” as they march along the street after a cold, hard rain has passed through and Cohan is presented with some hard evidence that his Gold Medal was truly deserved.  He is so overwhelmed that he cannot speak, until a soldier asks him, “What’s the matter, old-timer?  Don’t you remember this song?”  ”Seems to me I do,” is Cohan’s hoarse reply.  ”Well I don’t hear anything,” prods the soldier.  The film ends as Cohan marches along, singing his inspiring song, one voice among many, one man surrounded by his brethren.

For a Hollywood biography the film is more factual than most, though it does gloss over some of Cohan’s more controversial and virulent stances and completely ignores his first marriage.  Still, as a career overview of a public figure, it is outstanding.  It excels as a history of the changing Broadway landscape, from the dusk of vaudeville through the dawn of what is now called the “classical age” of the theater.  There are three brief musical montages that serve as time jumps but which also chronicle the evolution of theater in general and Cohan’s career specifically.

At the time the film was also an inspiration to fight on against the forces of oppression, using the irrepressible Cohan (and tough guy Cagney) as the poster boy for freedom.  On this level, as on all the others, it works wonderfully.

Yankee Doodle Dandy made its premiere May 29, 1942, with a war bond benefit.  The proceeds, totaling $5,750,000, were donated to the Treasury Dept.  The film was an immediate hit, one of the biggest of the year.  It scored with audiences and critics alike, providing Warner Bros. with the best things a hit movie can: money and prestige.  The film was nominated for eight Academy Awards and won three of them, for Best Sound, Scoring of a Musical and Actor.  Cagney, who was nominated only three times during his long career (Angels with Dirty Faces, 1938, and Love Me or Leave Me, 1955, were the others), took home the prize for the role which cherished as his favorite. Other nominations were for Best Picture, Supporting Actor (Walter Huston), Director (Michael Curtiz), Original Story and Film Editing.  The Best Picture and Director awards went to the patriotic British drama Mrs. Miniver.

Despite the usual four-star ratings given to Yankee Doodle Dandy in variousbooks and venues I’ve often felt that the film has been largely ignored when serious film discussion begins.  This feeling was sharpened when it just barely made the inaugural American Film Institute (AFI) list of the top 100 films of the century, at the very bottom, # 100.  Reaction to film is subjective, but I will never, ever believe that The Jazz Singer, Mutiny on the Bounty, Forrest Gump, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, An American in Paris or dozens of other films on the AFI list are of better quality or represent more lasting value than does Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Some films are given classic status for the technical or stylistic innovations they display; I would place The Jazz Singer and 2001: A Space Odyssey in this group.  Others like Yankee Doodle Dandy and Casablanca (which was director Michael Curtiz’s next film) are recognized for their appeal and endurance as popular art.  While Dandy cannot compete with Casablanca‘s romantic edge or sharply written supporting characters, I submit that it is nearly as good a film.Only time will tell how Yankee Doodle Dandy will continue to be judged.  It is my hope and expectation that it will get more attention and respect as they years pass by and other films are forgotten.  ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆. July 2012.  (1:1).

Before Michael Crichton found fame as a writer of science-based thrillers he was a medical student who published under the name of Jeffery Hudson (and before that, he wrote pulp thrillers during his college years as John Lange).  As Hudson, Crichton wrote a medical mystery-thriller titled A Case of Need that won literary awards and led to a film version through MGM, directed by Blake Edwards.  That film is The Carey Treatment.

Like many of Crichton’s stories, this one is topical and edgy, targeting sacred cows of the medical establishment and positing a botched abortion as a centerpiece for its plot.  It was very topical for 1972, and forty years later the story still resonates because such tragedies still occur.  It is also somewhat dated by some of its idioms and expressions — there are quite a few “Hey, man…”s — but that is part of its enduring charm.  And so is James Coburn.

As longtime readers of the print version of Filmbobbery may recall, James Coburn is my favorite actor.  I love the guy in the Derek Flint spy spoofs, Charade, The Magnificent Seven, The Great Escape, The President’s Analyst and many others, leading right up to his Academy Award-winning performance in Affliction.  Yet I think this movie may offer Coburn’s most representative character, the one that comes closest to being what he was all about.

Dr. Peter Carey is a professional pathologist, one of the best in the country, but he is much more than that.  He is of a different breed than many other physicians; he likes his work and enjoys the perks of the profession, but he doesn’t let his work get in the way of his life.  He cares more than most physicians, enough not to lie to people, and when his friend Dr. David Tao (James Hong) is implicated in an abortion scandal Carey puts his own career on the line to ferret out the truth of the matter.  Dr. Carey is hip and enjoys a hedonistic lifestyle, yet he values honesty and integrity above all else.  This seems like James Coburn in the flesh.

Carey refuses to back away from sticky-mess situations.  In one terrific scene Carey confronts the hospital’s top surgeon Dr. J. D. Randall (Dan O’Herlihy) regarding the persecution of Dr. Tao, who had been providing illegal abortions, and is accused of another that takes the life of the surgeon’s daughter.  Dr. Randall accuses Carey of hypocrisy, to which Carey responds by listing several examples of widespread and “accepted” abuses commonly practiced in the industry, and suggests that such things should be exposed and stopped.  ”We’ve got to bust a few windows.  Fumigate the institutions.  Let a little fresh air in,” states Carey.  Randall calls such thinking “vandalism.”  Carey calls it “integrity.”

Dialogue crackles during the film’s first hour, before the story’s mystery angle takes over and the plotting becomes more conventional.  Yet director Blake Edwards — an intriguing choice for this type of film — injects humor, savvy insight and keeps the extrapolation to a minimum.  Carey is new to Boston, having been recruited from Palo Alto, California, and he doesn’t quite fit in with the other doctors.  Edwards emphasizes Carey’s uniqueness, which is, of course, accentuated by James Coburn’s own singularity, making that element an important one in the story.

Another element that I really like about Coburn’s portrayal is that he isn’t afraid to needle people to get answers.  His interviews of the dead girl’s stepmother (Elizabeth Allen) and former roommate (Jennifer Edwards) are not exactly good positive examples of investigatory technique.  Yet even when the roommate calls him a son of a bitch for scaring her into revealing something, Carey nods, silently acknowledging that his methods are troubling, even to him.  He is not quite apologetic, but he accepts the responsibility for his actions, and lets her know that he understands what he did to her.  In this case, her information leads him to a killer.

The mystery itself is interesting but never enthralling.  I think part of this is due to the fact that Carey has no ties to anyone except for the wrongly accused doctor.  His investigation of the Boston blue bloods reveals greed, hypocrisy, tragedy and murder, but being new in town it all seems rather natural.  He is able to question without impunity and judge without consequence.  The story could have been more powerful had Carey been in Boston awhile, befriended some of these people and then been thrust into action.

One type of action Carey finds right away.  It isn’t more than twelve minutes into the story before he has made a move on the hospital’s chief dietician (the classically beautiful Jennifer O’Neill, whose seventh film appearance this was).  And it isn’t more than a couple of dates before he is letting her pick his new apartment and allowing her to furnish it — and giving her a key.  The manner in which their romantic relationship blossoms so suddenly is either appealing or off-putting; I find it appealing, because I can see that Carey is absolutely captivated by her.  O’Neill is certainly believable in the film, although her delivery of dialogue is somewhat stilted.  Her character is not superfluous to the story, however; she anchors Carey to the hospital and his new life there, and helps him navigate through the complexities and troublesome aspects of his unofficial investigation.  There is no question why Carey is drawn to her; she’s smart, she’s gorgeous and, she confesses, she does immoral things in bed.

Eventually Carey’s investigation leads to issues inside and outside of the hospital, culminating with a painful massage and multiple murder attempts — and a couple of collateral casualties.  As bright a pathologist as Carey must be, he cannot avoid asking the wrong people the wrong questions and gets himself into deep trouble by doing so, eventually ending up in the hospital as a patient himself.

The climax takes place at the Boston hospital, with all of the key people somewhere close by.  Carey uses yet another questionable technique on a young woman to get to the truth, but here at least he has a police witness (Pat Hingle) to listen and corroborate what happens.  But someone else is also in the hospital, and he is hunting the good doctor.  Note: this isn’t the type of film to see before one is about to have surgery of any kind.

The Carey Treatment may not be Shakespeare but it is a fine medical mystery with an immensely appealing performance by James Coburn.  It boasts a solid Roy Budd score, good cinematography and really strong dialogue (courtesy of screenwriter James P. Bonner and, of course, Michael Crichton).  It loses some of its momentum in the final act but is entertaining on several levels, especially when the hip renegade doctor clashes with the Establishment.  More movies should be this provocative and edgy.  And Blake Edwards should have returned frequently to this type of intriguing mix of satire, mystery and melodrama.  ☆ ☆ ☆.  June 2012.

1999 was a terrific year for movies, but my favorite of that year was an affectionate spoof of cheesy sci-fi TV shows, Galaxy Quest.  Without ever mentioning its chief target, the Star Trek phenomenon, Galaxy Quest  cleverly, quite humorously, and with a lot of heart, lauds a television genre that has provided millions of ardent fans with grand entertainment.

Several levels of spoof and satire are structured within the screenplay by David Howard and Robert Gordon, but the film is careful not to cynically skewer its basis, the original 1970s-era Galaxy Quest show.  Only a few clips are evident of the show — star Tim Allen is seen with longer hair, and Daryl Mitchell’s character is just a youngster in the clips — which, I think, is a smart move on the part of director Dean Parisot.  He counts on audience imagination to fill in the blanks regarding what the show would have been like, and by doing so avoids overtly aping specific Star Trek moments.  It is enough to reference the Star Trek phenomenon utilizing the familiar complement of the crew (including Alan Rickman as a half-human, half-alien officer) and nodding every once in a while to familiar conventions, such as having Tim Allen gradually lose his shirt while fighting the Pig Lizard.  Fans of shows such as Star Trek, Lost in Space and The Twilight Zone should have a blast watching this movie affectionately poke fun at their favorites of the past.

That affection is key to the film; it would be easy and probably funny to ridicule those types of shows; that has been done before and quite well on variety shows (remember those?) and Saturday Night Live.  But that isn’t the intent here.  The makers of Galaxy Quest, both in front of and behind the cameras, genuinely love those old sci-fi chestnuts, and simply want to enthusiastically share that love, adding their own little quips and fond recollections to the mix.  Thus, the original Galaxy Quest show is presented only briefly and with innate respect.  In fact, the Thermians who believe in it whole-heartedly (these aliens are utterly unaware of the concept of lying, or even storytelling) refer to the original broadcasts they have monitored for years as “historical documents.”  You can’t get much more respectful than that.

The story level involving the Thermians is troublesome if examined critically.  It makes no sense for them to be unaware of how television really works, what with show credits and so much variety.  This is referenced only once, when Gilligan’s Island is mentioned to the altruistic and unimaginative Thermians.  ”Oh, those poor people,” bemoans their leader, Mathesar, with bowed head.  It’s a funny moment, and it establishes just how naive this race from the stars actually is.  We just have to take it on faith that they actually believe the “historical documents” — what do they think of My Mother the Car? or Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp?

The Thermians, who have come to Earth to enlist the crew of the show’s spaceship, the Protector, to help save them from a rampaging alien named Sarris, have replicated the Protector from what they have seen on the “historical documents.”  This works for and against the crew, as they find themselves playing their roles for real.  The ship’s pilot, Laredo (Daryl Mitchell), has to recall how he originally moved his hands twenty years before, because that is how the Thermians recreated its pilot function.  And in my favorite scene, Captain Taggart (Tim Allen) and Lt. Tawny Madison (Sigourney Weaver) have to avoid the “chompers” in the bowels of the ship while trying to prevent its self-destruction.  The “chompers” make absolutely no sense, and Tawny agrees, screaming that the episode that featured them was badly written.  She is right, but that scene is hilarious because the chompers make no sense, and because the movie is acknowledging that the old shows could, at times, be pretty ludicrous.

Galaxy Quest‘s homage to the original Star Trek series extends to the scenes on a planet that features a goofy-looking Pig Lizard, a rock monster and a race of miners that seems like innocent children, but perhaps is not.  This was filmed in Goblin Valley, Utah, in a landscape that certainly looks forebodingly alien and dangerous.  The rock monster is pretty cool, easily the neatest alien of the bunch, and it returns for an encore appearance later in the story.  This sequence gives the crew a break from the ship, and allows them to reconstitute as a group, which is necessary if they want to survive.

Another level of the story delves into the dynamics of the former cast, and how much everyone is irritated by the egotistical Peter Jason (Tim Allen), the William Shatner-like character who plays Captain Taggart.  This conceit acknowledges the uneasy tension that existed between Shatner and his cohorts, before and after the original run of their show, and it provides an intriguing dynamic here.  Alan Rickman, playing a serious British actor continually bummed by where his stardom has led him, is Dr. Lazarus, the substitute for Spock.  The lone female is Sigourney Weaver, and her job is to talk to the ship’s computer, similarly to how Nichelle Nichols served on the original Star Trek.  For this role, Weaver has gone blonde, reflecting her character name, Tawny, and is as sexy as she’s ever been, especially as the story concludes and her uniform unzips lower and lower. Daryl Mitchell’s pilot character, Tommy Webber, corresponds to Lt. Sulu, and Tony Shalhoub is the ship’s engineering officer, Fred Kwan, a much more laid-back Scotty.  Shalhoub’s character is, for me, the most fun of them all.  After twenty years of conventions and having to deal with these people, Fred just takes everything in stride without ever getting upset.  When they first experience teleportation to the ship, everyone is mortified by the voyage.  Everyone except Fred. “That was a hell of a thing,” he deadpans.

Perhaps nothing illustrates the film’s cleverness than the character of Crewman Number Six.  Featured at a convention as a show extra who introduces the big names to the crowd, Crewman Number Six (Sam Rockwell) was on one episode, and is still desperately hanging on to that memory, depressed that no one remembers him or knows his name.  His name is Guy Fleegman, actually, and Guy’s predicament as the Protector crew tries to help the Thermians deal with Sarris, who wants to destroy everyone and everything associated with the Thermians, is that any crewman without a name is often expendable.  He bemoans this fact repeatedly, and it never gets old, because it is so true.  Gradually Guy becomes an integral part of the crew, and he is rewarded at the end of the story in a moment that is just perfect.  I love that the writers had enough confidence to experiment with this character, who provides an outside perspective and a great deal of humor.

It isn’t just old sci-fi adventures that this movie spoofs, it’s also the ardent fan base that has taken root from them.  As might be expected, the Protector crew is not really up to the task of actually saving the Thermians, or themselves. They don’t even know the parameters of their own ship.  But the fans do.  One fan in particular, Brandon (Justin Long), is contacted by Captain Taggart to help them navigate through the many levels of the ship.  Brandon and his friends have, as the most obsessed fans do, created entire blueprints for the ship, eager to learn every secret, blissfully uncaring that the thing never really existed because with their plans and schematics, it really does.

The film pokes fun at the people who go to the conventions in costume and quote dialogue back to the actors, yet it is a gentle, affectionate fun.  The film even concludes at yet another convention, where the crew makes a most dramatic entrance, followed closely by Sarris.  The difference this time is that by the climax, the crew of the Protector is a real crew, unified by common experience and real respect for each other, whereas before they were a bunch of egotistical actors still clinging to triumphs well past.  They grow, and that growth is what makes the film so effective behind the comedy.

I haven’t even mentioned the Omega 13 device, nor the tidy concept of how limited time travel could be a really smart, lifesaving idea.  There is plenty at which to marvel and wonder about in Galaxy Quest, but that is because it is science-fiction, the medium of ideas. Even science-fiction on this populist level contains concepts and notions that bear greater scrutiny and, dare I say, implementation.  But Galaxy Quest is also a comedy, and a good one.  It is quite funny from start to finish, occasionally brilliant, and sometimes silly.  It has wonderful writing, terrific performances, good makeup and special effects and wit to spare.  Its DVD contains deleted scenes (some pretty good), a featurette and even a Thermian language track.  This isn’t a great movie, but it shows how clever and fun Hollywood filmmakers can be when they devote themselves to taking a really good idea and making a really good movie.  Galaxy Quest is certainly a really good movie, and one of my favorites.  ✰ ✰ ✰ ½.  May 2012.

When I discovered this terrific suspense film about twenty years ago I was captivated with just about everything about it, from its unrelenting suspense to its excellent performances, from its cynical humor to its good common sense, from its bleak but realistic view of how people view governmental authorities to its small but important details regarding the daily life of its protagonist hero. It shouldn’t have surprised me because it is directed by the great Elia Kazan, probably the finest film-maker of the 1950s.

Now, more than sixty years later, Panic in the Streets is discussed mostly by people trying to find clues to the director’s political stances, which, of course, led to his “friendly testimony” at the HUAC hearings in 1952. While fishing for hints and meanings regarding Kazan’s character and beliefs is completely understandable given the circumstances, such fishing ignores the more immediate issue of the movie itself.  A lesser film would perhaps offer more clues about the man who made it — but Panic in the Streets is so solid that it should be examined and judged on its own lofty merits.

Based upon a story by the married writing team of Edward and Edna Anhalt (who won an Oscar for this original story), Elia Kazan’s movie about an imminent outbreak of pneumonic plague in New Orleans was filmed on location.  It was Kazan’s first non-studio based movie and he makes the most of the locale, lensing in tiny eateries, messy apartments, crowded streets and dingy docks.  And though he didn’t take the project very seriously as traditional drama, Kazan constantly strove for realism, even to the extent of hiring non-professionals to play small roles because of the way they appeared or behaved.

The story begins with a merchant seaman (Lewis Charles) recently returned to New Orleans, but who isn’t feeling very well.  After he wins big at a poker game, three local hoodlums (Jack Palance, Zero Mostel, Guy Thomajan) follow him, rob him, kill him and dump his body in a river.  Soon after when the body is autopsied, it is found to carry a highly contagious form of pneumonic plague.  A U.S. Health Inspector is called in to take charge of finding the source of the scourge and any other possible carriers — all without alarming the city’s populace.

The Health Inspector, Dr. Clinton Reed (Richard Widmark), immediately recognizes the public danger posed by the plague, and calls for secrecy so that the plague carriers don’t leave the city before they can be apprehended. Assigned to help him in the unfamiliar city is Police Captain Tom Warren (Paul Douglas), who has no faith that Dr. Reed will be able to achieve anything in the forty-eight hours they have before signs of the illness begin to appear.  Captain Warren follows the book, bringing every miscreant and lowlife known by the cops for questioning, including Fitch (Zero Mostel), one of the men responsible, but he is let go after routine questions.  Seeing no progress the traditional way and assuming that the dead man had ties to the waterfront, Dr. Reed begins his search there.

Using $50 of his own money as bait, he asks a hall full of itinerant sailors for information, a ploy which eventually leads to a guy on a small boat admitting that he helped smuggle the sick man into port.  One piece of the puzzle leads to another and soon Warren and Reed are on the trail of the three killers — one of whom (Thomajan) is beginning to feel sick himself.

Kazan’s film is viewed in some quarters as one long chase film, and, indeed, that is the case, as Warren and Reed follow their leads toward the men who may be capable of infecting an entire city.  At the same time, the main villain, Blackie (Jack

Palance, in his film debut) is constantly searching, too.  First, it’s for the poker winner, whom he dispatches with his gun.  Then, it’s Poldi (Thomajan), the dead man’s cousin, who just wants to stop feeling sick.  Blackie becomes convinced that the two men were up to something behind his back, something involving smuggling, and money that they are not giving to him.  So despite the police heat he stalks the city trying to keep his men in line and take control of whatever they are doing behind his back.  Although Blackie sits and relaxes quite a bit, his hoods are always on the move, and so are the police and Dr. Reed.

Dr. Reed becomes so exhausted that he goes home for a few minutes to change clothes and rest.  His scene with his wife Nancy (Barbara Bel Geddes) is a welcome respite from the kinetic movement of the story, yet he gets little rest here either, for she has made a decision about their future that surprises and pleases him.  This particular scene works very well because of the distance maintained between them — he avoids touching her in case he, too, has become infected.  Thematically and visually this scene is among the finest in the film.

A call from the Mayor (H. Waller Fowler Jr.) ends Reed’s brief rest and cranks up the tension.  The story has finally been given to the press, and there is only four hours to find the plague carriers before the story becomes public.  Warren and Reed intensify their efforts, get lucky and find the men preparing to leave the city. Blackie and Fitch get away, as far as a coffee warehouse, where they make a last stand while still trying to find a way out.  Reed once again breaks police protocol to do things his way, and learns the hard way how dangerous that is.  The chase ends with Blackie as the visual metaphor of a rat trying unsuccessfully to sneak to safety and disaster is averted.

Though Panic in the Streets is more than sixty years old now, in some ways it remains quite contemporary.  The scene where the Mayor tells Reed and Warren that the story will become public in four hours provokes Reed to argue that the world has become a very small place, that anyone could board a plane and be on another continent in ten hours, that the only chance to limit the plague to its current location is to withhold news of it.  All of that is true, and mighty persuasive.  But Kazan has the Mayor refuse to give in to such logic.  The Mayor releases the pesky reporter Ness (Dan Riss) whom Warren had detained earlier in the evening, arguing that the reporter’s job is just as important as their own, and that the situation would have to be resolved despite the public notice.  This scene alone ought to convince anyone that Kazan had no Communist tendencies.

Kazan had already proven with A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (1945), Gentleman’s Agreement (1947) and Pinky (1949) that he was an actor’s director.  But those films, as good as they are, are rather talky dramas that are not particularly cinematic.  With this film, Elia Kazan finally took his cameras outside and let them loose.  The location filming, use of long shots to not only establish scenes but carry the narrative and continuous movement of character and story was a total departure for the director, and marked his maturity as a truly cinematic teller of tales.  Throughout the 1950s Kazan would continue to focus on performances first, but with a newfound confidence that made his films as stylish and cinematic as well as profoundly dramatic.

Known primarily as a heavy since his giggling debut in Kiss of Death (1947), Richard Widmark was happy to finally snag a heroic role, and he is excellent.  Widmark, like Kirk Douglas, was perfectly suited to psychological stories of the post-war period, because of his innate intelligence and smart-as-a-whip demeanor.  Matching him, and balancing the story, is suave yet menacing Walter Jack Palance, who would soon drop his first name to be billed simply as Jack Palance.  He plays Blackie very adroitly, spreading cash around and being as polite as can be as long as he gets his way. Palance steals just about every scene that he’s in and even generates sympathy once or twice, but his ruthless character predestines the general course of his later career.

Kazan didn’t care much for Paul Douglas but Douglas is perfectly cast as the stubborn, obtuse policeman.  In his own way Douglas is quite good, too, though he does not receive many memorable moments, just good dialogue.  The script by Richard Murphy was so strong that it was a Writers Guild of America nominee for the best of the year.  The dialogue crackles with an intensity that modern films only pretend to emulate, and which Kazan, with his stage background, kept fully in the foreground.  Among the great joys of the film is listening to Widmark and Douglas banter, and Palance hector his nervous henchmen.

The plot premise of an outbreak of disease was relatively uncommon in films prior to this one, but in 1950 no less than three movies featured epidemics of one sort or another.  I wrote about them in 2005 (7:1), comparing how Stars in My Crown, The Killer That Stalked New York and Panic in the Streets all handled their respective epidemics of typhoid fever, smallpox and pneumonic plague (the pulmonary form of bubonic plague).  Of the three, it is Panic in the Streets that delivers the best thrills as an outbreak thriller, positing the most frightening scenario and then resolving it with intelligence, wit and sometimes uncomfortable realism.

1950 was a very, very good year for movies, what with such titles as All About Eve, Sunset Blvd., Cyrano de Bergerac, Born Yesterday, Champagne for Caesar, Father of the Bride, Harvey, Broken Arrow, The Asphalt Jungle, Winchester ’73, The Gunfighter, No Way Out, Cinderella, Annie Get Your Gun, Destination Moon, King Solomon’s Mines and The Men, and Panic in the Streets is as good or better than many of those acclaimed classics.  It is a genuinely exciting movie with solid performances and surprising humor that ought to be on every movie buff’s list of movies to someday see.  I think you will find it as memorable as I do.  ✰ ✰ ✰ ½.  April 2012.

I was just twelve when I saw Airport for the first time.  On November 11, 1973 it became the highest-rated movie ever broadcast on television when it premiered on ABC.  I was one of the millions who watched it, and I was enthralled.  Since then I’ve read the book (five times) and, subsequently, all of Arthur Hailey’s other books. Hailey specialized in dense, intricately plotted, meticulously researched explorations of very specific environments in books like Hotel, Wheels, The Moneychangers and his biggest success of all, Airport.

It takes place at Lincoln International Airport in Chicago, a sort of whitewashed version of O’Hare, during a blizzard that leads to all sorts of complications on the ground, and later, in the air.  Hailey’s book, and George Seaton’s movie, delve into the interior workings of the airport, which functions as a microcosm of a small city, and several personal stories that develop, bisect and collide as Trans Global Airlines’ Flight 2 prepares to leave for Rome.

Lincoln’s general operations officer (Burt Lancaster) is beset by the blizzard that threatens to cripple the airport, a jet stuck in the snow blocking its longest runway, an elderly stowaway (Helen Hayes) whose casual dishonesty rubs a passenger relations agent (Jean Seberg) the wrong way, a combative pilot (Dean Martin) who happens to be his brother-in-law, angry residents picketing because of the take-off noise generated by use of the shorter runway, and, eventually, the possibility of a mentally disturbed passenger with a bomb.

This doesn’t even mention the romantic complications between Lancaster and his socialite wife (Dana Wynter), furious that he spends so much time at the airport, or Lancaster’s affair with Seberg… or pilot Dean Martin’s affair with a hot stewardess (Jacqueline Bisset), who shocks him before the flight with the news that she is pregnant.

Naturally, the stowaway sneaks onto the Rome flight and sits right next to the desperate bomber.  Naturally, the stewardess (yes, that is the term used in the film) is enlisted to get the bomb away from the suicidal man.  Naturally, it doesn’t work, and all hell breaks loose.

All this drama (and melodrama) is delivered in grand style by an all-star cast.  It was this movie that essentially jump-started the disaster film cycle, and ensured that the cinematic perils to follow put just about every famous name in Hollywood at risk in some way or another.  In 1970 Airport made some $45 million, more than twice as much as the next biggest moneymaker.  Producers saw what George Seaton had put together and followed the same formula for the next decade, with spectacular results.

The all-star cast certainly helped recruit audiences, but most everybody involved gives terrific performances, too.  Helen Hayes won the Supporting Actress Academy Award as mischievous stowaway Ada Quonsett, and she is hilarious.  Maureen Stapleton shines as the disbelieving wife of the bomber; she won a Golden Globe award for her performance.  Every time I see this movie I am increasingly impressed with Stapleton’s performance, probably the best in the film.  George Kennedy is great as Joe Patroni, the cigar-chomping maintenance chief called upon to remove the snowbound jet blocking the airport’s longest runway.  Jean Seberg and Jacqueline Bisset are good, sometimes very good, in their less demanding roles.

Burt Lancaster is appropriately intense as the airport manager, juggling hundreds of concerns, requests and demands.  Lancaster brings the movie together; everything revolves around his character, and he is excellent. Anyone who doubts this should visit the scene where Lancaster tells off the board member who wants to shut down the airport because of noise concerns — his soliloquy about the future that the airport

will face is dynamic and heartfelt.  The star whose performance is criticized in many circles is Dean Martin.  Sadly, his reputation for tippling makes this an unfortunate role in which to take him seriously, but his performance is pretty good nonetheless.  I’ve always liked him in it, much as I liked him in Rio Bravo and Some Came Running.  He’s probably miscast, but I don’t think he detracts from the drama at all; in fact, I like his character, and Martin’s acting, a great deal.

Beyond the star-gazing and the gloss provided by producer Ross Hunter that pervades the picture, it also boasts some genuinely solid filmmaking.  Seaton’s use of split screen — and sometimes diamond screen, or panel screen, or insert screen — is superb, solving the practical issue of how to make telephone calls and radio-based conversations and even flashbacks entertaining without breaking the flow of the narrative.  The film’s technical aspects are top-notch, as attested to by its ten Academy Award nominations.  About the only thing it is missing is great model work in flight, as we never see the plane in flight with its hole facing the camera.

Perhaps my favorite technical aspect is the music.  Alfred Newman devised a fabulous theme for the movie — maybe the best aviation music ever written — big and bold, exciting and triumphant.  It is my all-time favorite title music, perfectly capturing all the drama that this particular evening at an airport promises.  While Newman’s romantic music is too soggy for my taste, his theme for Ada Quonsett is absolutely delightful.  It is surprising to me that Newman scored this Universal film, since he was the long-time head of the music department for 20th Century-Fox. Sadly, Newman died less than a month before Airport premiered to the public.

Anyway, I just love this movie, soap-opera romance and all.  It is set in a fascinating place full of intricacies and excitement, from smugglers and lost children to security experts and suicidal bombers.  Things have changed a great deal since this movie was made, which makes it a time capsule to remind us how open and innocent things were not so long ago.  Most of all, I appreciate the figures who run the airport such as Lancaster’s and Seberg’s and Lloyd Nolan’s characters, devoting their time and energy to making sure things run efficiently and safely for all the people who pass through.  The movie is a tribute to the real people in those positions.

Some of the book didn’t make it into the 137-minute film. Lancaster’s character has an emotionally-troubled brother, an air traffic controller, who is very important in the book.  There is much more about the bomber’s personal problems and why he feels the need to try to provide an insurance payoff to his long-suffering wife.  Perhaps someday another version, a longer version, will tackle these issues; many of Arthur Hailey’s later books were filmed as miniseries in response to their dramatic density.

When I tell people about my all-time favorite films, Airport, at number four, is the one that raises eyebrows.  I don’t care.  I get excited to see it every few years and when I do, like tonight, it never fails to thrill me.  It boasts excellent writing, some great performances, wonderful title music and a situation tailor-made for a movie. Leonard Maltin says that its “Grand Hotel plot formula reaches [its] latter-day zenith in [this] ultraslick, old-fashioned movie that entertains in spite of itself.”  I disagree; I think it has elements of greatness and doesn’t squander the opportunity.  I love this movie and I will defend, and enjoy, it forever.  ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰. March 2012.

The inaugural choice for this new feature, a monthly spotlight on a particular movie, is an easy one for me. It is a Gloria Grahame film, one of the finest in which she ever appeared, and my book about her films boasts more than eleven pages about this particular gem. It is an Academy Award record holder, having received the most wins ever (five) without being a Best Picture nominee, and since we are in the heart of Oscar season, this is a natural choice. It is a movie about movies, and since the point of this website is to celebrate moviemaking, I could not pick a better example to showcase. Above all it is a wonderful movie, full of everything a great movie should have: terrific performances, a sharp, penetrating script, brilliant direction and an overriding theme that makes the experience of watching it worthwhile. Again and again, I might add, for this movie certainly stands the test of time.  It is Vincente Minnelli’s tribute to (and exposé of) Hollywood, The Bad and the Beautiful (1952).

Based on two stories by George Bradshaw seamlessly melded into one by screenwriter Charles Schnee, the film takes aim at a familiar stereotype, the Hollywood Heel, in this case a producer named Jonathan Shields (Kirk Douglas). But Shields is hardly a typical producer. Yes, he will do almost anything to make his movie, but even his most egregious methods are eventually seen to be, perhaps, worthwhile. Judging him very harshly are his former associates, director Fred Amiel (Barry Sullivan), writer James Lee Bartlow (Dick Powell) and star Georgia Lorrison (Lana Turner). Each former associate has plenty of reason to despise Jonathan Shields (these are depicted in vivid flashbacks), but they reluctantly agree to the request of studio head Harry Pebbel (Walter Pidgeon) to listen to Shields’ latest pitch to make another movie, an artifice which bookends the beginning and end of the film.

Shields proves, in the flashbacks, to be smart, energetic and ruthless, perhaps in response to the legacy of his father, who was known as one of the meanest men in Tinseltown. He befriends director Amiel and they team up to make micro-budget productions that pay the bills but offer no personal satisfaction. Their break comes with a terrible horror title, The Doom of the Cat Men, in which they hit on the approach of not showing the silly-suited boogeymen, preying upon the audience’s fear of the unknown. This section of the movie may be my favorite, depicting as it does the ingenuity and artistry of people faced with ridiculous challenges and discerning a way to make it work anyway. And Ned Glass’ running commentary about the tattered cat suits is hilarious.

Amiel writes a script from a popular novel said to be unfilmable, and is set to direct it. But before that can happen Shields recruits a veteran director and cuts Amiel out of the studio deal he constructs. Amiel goes on to other things but never forgives Shields for his betrayal.

Next up is actress Georgia Lorrison, who has her own tragic, alcoholic Hollywood legacy to live down. Shields finds her and decides to promote her as a star, despite her almost complete lack of quality experience. With no self-confidence, Lorrison nearly sinks Shields’ production before it even begins.

So Shields romances her, boosting her confidence and self-esteem in every way, pampering her on set and looking after her in the evenings. Lorrison blossoms under his care, and has never been happier. The movie opens and it is clear that Shields has another hit, and that Lorrison is a bright new star. She returns home to find the producer with one of the sexy extras, and quite blasé about it. Hysterical at the betrayal, Lorrison drives away, and in perhaps the movie’s best-known sequence, nearly has a mental breakdown during a violent rainstorm on the road. Lana Turner, who was a huge star but was rarely considered much of an actress, is sensational in that scene, proving that she could handle real drama when given the opportunity.

The Shields – Lorrison segment of the movie is the most melodramatic that it gets. In my eyes it is the weakest part of the film — and yet it is still powerful drama. Others love the old-style soap opera dramatics between Douglas and Turner, which probably reminds them of the way movies so often portrayed romantic turmoil during the heyday of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis. It is because of Turner’s participation that the title of the film was changed from Tribute to a Bad Man, which was later usurped for a James Cagney western, to The Bad and the Beautiful. It was felt by the MGM executives that some mention of Turner’s beauty and strong popularity needed to be acknowledged in the title, so that was the compromise. Does it matter? The original title is better, I think, but The Bad and the Beautiful works, too.

Finally, writer James Lee Bartlow has his story told. His first novel is a hit, which Shields wishes him to adapt into a script. Shields brings Bartlow and his wife Rosemary (Gloria Grahame) out to the coast to see the sights and provide an opportunity to persuade the unwilling writer to tackle the project. Ultimately it is Rosemary who forces her husband’s decision; she loves Hollywood and all of its glamour. So Bartlow writes the script and Rosemary tours the town. Shields wants Bartlow to focus more intently, so he persuades him to take a fishing trip with him away from the studio, leaving his wife behind. Rosemary takes off on a quick fling with a movie star (Gilbert Roland) while Bartlow is off with Shields; their plane crashes, killing both of them. It is only later that Bartlow discovers that Shields asked Roland to squire Rosemary around town. He slugs the producer and vows never to work with him again.

Thus, three of Shields’ former friends declare in no uncertain terms that they despise him for his betrayals. Studio head Harry Pebbel has a different viewpoint, however, and indicates to them that Shields cut ties with each of them, deliberately or not, in order that they could mature and find success on their own, away from his influence. It is this theme that originates in the George Bradshaw stories, that people are full of resilience and will bounce back from seemingly horrible situations to gather strength and prosper in ways they never could have imagined. Both of his stories are infused with this optimism, and they flavor the film with a charm that belies the apparent antagonism that surrounds Shields.

Pebbel asks them one last time if they will work with Shields, and each of them refuses. On the phone, however, Shields insists on telling his project idea to the studio chief. Leaving his office, Lorrison, Amiel and Bartlow cannot help but pick up an extension line and listen in. The film ends here, with the possibility open that they may still fall under Shields’ spell once again. Whenever I see this movie, I fervently hope that they will, because it is obvious that despite Shields’ actions and sometimes underhanded methods, he is a force for good (movies, anyway). Sure, he is a heel, but Jonathan Shields is a charming heel who always strives for quality in his productions.

It is this characteristic which redeems Shields for me. As Harry Pebbel notes, “You know, when they list the ten best movies ever made, there are always two or three of his on the list. And I was with him when he made them.” The movie posits that Shields’ often abominable behavior is acceptable as long as what he produces is of sufficient quality. In real life I might argue the point, but in terms of this movie’s moral gravity I accept the point wholeheartedly. It is what makes the film so memorable and effective as not only a character study but an exploration of Hollywood ethos. It is worth noting that not everyone in town was anxious for the film to be made. In fact, if Louis B. Mayer had still been the head of the studio (he had been essentially forced out in 1951) MGM would never have made the movie. It was brought to the studio by independent producer John Houseman who, with new studio head Dore Schary, was confident that a good movie could be made of the material and would benefit from the usual MGM gloss.

Under Minnelli’s impeccable direction, the film was wonderfully realized. It was a big hit and was nominated for six Academy Awards, winning five of them (only Kirk Douglas lost in the Best Actor category, to High Noon‘s Gary Cooper). The winner of the Best Supporting Actress prize was Gloria Grahame, who had three other big movies out that year. It was not so much a question of her winning the Oscar that year, but for which of her films would she be nominated. Gloria is very decorative and effective in the role of Bartlow’s starstruck wife Rosemary, with many critics of the opinion that she steals the spotlight from Lana Turner (who was, criminally, not nominated). Gloria is terrific in the film, but so is everybody else. From the dynamic leads to key supporting parts as small as Ned Glass’, Elaine Stewart’s, and Ivan Triesault’s, the film is sharply cast and beautifully acted.

In my opinion The Bad and the Beautiful is a classic. It is one of the best movies about Hollywood ever produced. It is a serious, entertaining glimpse into the business of creating silver screen excitement, exposing the pettiness, manipulation and ego-destroying elements of the motion picture industry. Yet beyond the betrayals, power plays and penny-pinching decisions that shape what the public is shown, there is also a deep respect and appreciation for the artistry of film entertainment, which prevents the pessimism of the piece from overwhelming its subject, and the audience. It is a film that, more than half a century after its creation, continues to live and breathe as vigorously as any other title of the era. Its depiction of the film industry business is, of course, dated, but its themes are not; if anything, they are more relevant now, as the commercial aspects of the industry seem to be crushing its artistic integrity. We need a Jonathan Shields and Fred Amiel to once again prove that even seeming schlock like The Doom of the Cat Men can have artistic merit, given the right approach. All it takes is hard work and the right attitude. This movie has the right attitude; it is one for the ages.  ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰.  February 2012.