The Pretender

1947, US, directed by W. Lee Wilder

Stronger on plot than on execution, with a nice, bitterly sardonic sting in the tail. 

The Red House

1947, US, directed by Delmer Daves

A sweaty, tense thriller, that picks away at the apparently benign exteriors of location and character to reveal the darkness beneath -- just as the quiet small town setting becomes less innocent, Edward G. Robinson's character starts to drift off the rails, and it's all set up for quite the fervid psycho-sexual climax. It's an interesting counterpoint to the more common urban settings of post-war noir, too. 

Brute Force

1947, US, directed by Jules Dassin

A film that lives up to its title, depicting the constant, claustrophobic drumbeat of violence, both psychological and physical, in prison. The characters are never unaware of the restrictions under which they operate, whether it's the bars on their cells, or the (often arbitrary) rules with which they must comply. Dassin's framing, as in the picture above, is often very strong, quickly delineating the free and unfree zones. The film isn't as strong in its social analysis sections, inventing a somewhat unconvincing context in which several characters debate the meaning and utility of prison; it's much stronger down in the bowels with the men, and the tick-tock sense of a bomb about to explode. Burt Lancaster, in one of his earliest roles, is already every inch the star, commanding the screen. The decision to cast Hume Cronyn as the sadistic warder is a stroke of genius, though he's alarmingly into it at times.

Hollow Triumph

1948, US, directed by Steve Sekely

A neat, small-scale B-noir, with Paul Henreid in good form in a classic Hollywood dual role that wouldn't stand up to a moment's scrutiny out in the real world, and yet it works, partly because the film is so committed to its inevitable, utterly downbeat conclusion. There's also some especially fine cinematography by John Alton, deep in an exceptionally productive and successful period of his career, with this film released around the same time as the equally striking T-Men and He Walked By Night.

So Dark the Night

1946, US, directed by Joseph S. Lewis

Lewis is one of those filmmakers who is so deliberate with his choices that it's almost impossible not to be aware that there's a director at work, making conscious choices over each aspect of the structure and storytelling. Nothing is careless or accidental, for instance in his exceptional use of framing -- here there are frames within frames, grids, or lamps and other objects that unexpectedly intrude in the foreground, forcing the eye to look around to focus on the actors, or ask just why the camera is placed there and what this conveys of the directorial eye. All this is at the service of a story that's frankly on the outer edges of B-movie credibility, in an odd, out-of-time version of rural France, and yet that barely matters as the plot advances and Lewis centers in more and more tightly on a disintegrating mind.

That Brennan Girl

1946, US, directed by Alfred Santell

Watched after Farran Nehme wrote about this as part of a retrospective of Republic Pictures films. As the article suggests, the film is quite fascinating in its use of formal devices, to show the passage of time or to push the viewer to greater investment in the action, among other things. It's also very much of its 1946 moment, with a husband lost to the war, and if the conclusion ultimately seems a little too neat it's hard to deny the titular girl her moment in the sun.

Too Late for Tears

1949, US, directed by Byron Haskin

Lizabeth Scott is in very fine form as a very fatale femme -- stay well back. Like Woman on the Run, this is a modest film in its ambitions but the whipsaws of the plot and the performances are generally pleasurable (and Dan Duryea plays an entirely atypical Dan Duryea part -- when he's not the least sympathetic person in the movie you know you're in uncharted waters). 

Lured

1947, US, directed by Douglas Sirk (aka Personal Column)

A film I last saw nearly thirty years ago, though Lucille Ball's performance lingered long in the memory, and her work captivated me anew here. By contrast, I had completely forgotten that a personal favourite, George Sanders, was also present, but then again Ball wipes the floor with pretty much everyone on this occasion. I didn't quite buy the picture, though, as an example of Sirk-as-auteur -- it comes across as an exceptionally competent 1940s film that has relatively little in common with the director's distinctive 1950s work. 

Falbalas

1945, France, directed by Jacques Becker

Despite the very different settings, Falbalas shares a great deal in common with Becker's previous film, Goupi Mains Rouges -- the confident sketching in of a very specific time and place, the mastery over multiple characters (with even the most minor among them having a sense of being people rather than plot devices), and the confidence in managing transitions of tone, though the blacker satire of the earlier film is absent here. One of the most fascinating aspects of the picture is Becker's insistent focus on the behind-the-scenes corps of women who transform the designer's work into actual garments -- it lends the film a striking political note, as well as a warmth that surely owes at least something to his work with Jean Renoir (perhaps not always to Renoir's benefit -- Becker was, after all, one of the behind-the-scenes personnel subjugated to the Renoir legend).

L'Armoire volante

1948, France, directed by Carlo Rim

After enjoying La Maison Bonnadieu, I went in search of more by Carlo Rim. This feels very much like a Gallic Ealing picture, or at least Ealing on its more macabre days (there are, though, some very non-Ealing touches, such as the setting in a hotel which does a roaring trade in the short-staying customer). Fernandel, in unusually toned-down mode, features as a civil servant who is due an inheritance on the death of his aunt but needs her body in order to make his claim, and said corpse is notable mainly for its absence. There's a quite brilliant sequence in which the legal eagles outline the difference between a mere death -- of little consequence -- and a good, clean, legally-approved death with all its attendant paperwork.

Non coupable

1947, France, directed by Henri Decoin

A deeply cynical postwar film -- a category in which there is much Gallic competition -- about getting away with murder, with Michel Simon, playing a doctor, in especially fine form (as was the case with his very different part in the same year's Panique). While not directly about the recently-concluded war and its aftermath, it's hard not to draw inferences about the impact of those events on the French psyche, while Decoin also infuses a hearty dose of Simenon-esque commentary on the bourgeoisie, most obviously in the evening routine of the (male) notables in the local bar. Decoin's work behind the camera provides further evidence that he's a worthwhile addition to the postwar canon. 

National Velvet

1944, US, directed by Clarence Brown

Eyes in the Night

1942, US, directed by Fred Zinnemann

An early Zinnemann, featuring a blind detective and his duo of assistants -- one canine, one wisecracking 1940s character actor -- solving a very of-its-time wartime murder caper with a dash of Nazi spy intrigue. Despite the unusual detective trio, there's little memorable on offer here -- this looks and feels like a straightforward programmer.

It Always Rains On Sunday

1947, UK, directed by Robert Hamer

An atypically downbeat Ealing film, set over the course of the titular day with some brief flashbacks, and centered on a manhunt/criminal back on his home turf. The picture of British domesticity is very carefully and precisely undercut, with the crowded London streets seen to harbor a good deal more than they seem, while the East End’s market-sellers and Jewish businessmen (both legitimate and somewhat less legitimate) get an extended onscreen airing. Unlike in Hell is a City, which I watched immediately before this, there is a certain air of doomed romance, and while some commentators link that atmosphere to pre-war French films, I thought it equated at least as closely with some of the cynicism and sourness of immediate post-war French film.  

Grand Central Murder

1942, US, directed by S. Sylvan Simon

A very efficient programmer that functions in some ways like an extended Agatha Christie unmasking: after some brisk early business, all of the suspects and several cops are gathered together to unravel a knotty mystery, with the lead detective in competition/collaboration with a wiseguy private dick/possible suspect (Van Heflin). There’s a breezy blend of tones -- murder, family dynamics, running jokes, banter -- that works very well, and the budget stretches to a good deal of location shooting that makes for an atmospheric and unusual backdrop. The camera movement is also quite creative in the cramped room where most of the action takes place, the camera roaming from one person to another as conversations evolve. 

Confirm or Deny

1941, US, directed by Archie Mayo

Very enjoyable Don Ameche-starrer set in Blitz-era London, and while it's obviously a "preparedness" picture for an American audience it's also rather well done, with a decent sense of time and place and some very enjoyable character turns (Eric Blore, Arthur Shields -- whose Irish accent isn't hard to detect); the emotional climax is well-earned, with Ameche doing a fine job with an unusual kind of soliloquy. The budget goes to good use, too -- there are several highly convincing scenes dealing with the aftermath of various bombardments. 

Dark Passage

1947, US, directed by Delmer Daves

The only Bogart-Bacall I hadn't seen, though it's less notable for that pairing for my money, lacking most of the crackle of their other appearances together. It's a good deal more interesting for the noir elements, and the sense of a deepening nightmare as the bodies pile up. Overall, though, I found it less satisfying than its parts: several sequences to be treasured, and a number of wonderful character turns, but somehow the final product lacked that ineffable magic. 

The Chase

1946, US, directed by Arthur Ripley

An oddball noir from Arthur Ripley, based on a Cornell Woolrich novel, which features some spectacular narrative sleight-of-hand even by the standards of the mid-1940s. Ripley's career as a director encompassed only three features, and it's a shame he didn't pursue his interests more as this is certainly distinctive in its feverish Florida/Cuba atmosphere, while it is also blessed with a very fine cast: Robert Cummings, Peter Lorre (oily in a weirdly catatonic way), Michèle Morgan, and Steve Cochran are all in good form. Most memorable, though, for the feverish atmosphere. It's well-worth watching the picture in conjunction with David Bordwell's pair of 2016 blog posts, which contain major spoilers (though 1946 audiences would in many cases have known what was up, as Bordwell so expertly demonstrates). 

Ball of Fire

1941, US, directed by Howard Hawks

Wonderful big-screen outing, and despite my love for both Hawks and Stanwyck this was a first-time viewing for me. There's such a strong association these days between Hawks and the more manly genres that it often comes as a surprise to be reminded that he directed several of the great screwball comedies, although there's certainly some overlap in terms of the director's interests in the world of work and the various professional codes and behaviours that he contrasts to amusing effect when juxtaposing the academics and the gangsters. Occupying a role in between both groups, Barbara Stanwyck owns the film even when surrounded by a galaxy of fine character actors.

The Face Behind the Mask

1941, US, directed by Robert Florey

Terrific crime melodrama, with Lorre in top form as a new arrival in the US dealt a terrible hand by fate after he is disfigured in a fire. While there narrative gets a touch overheated by the end, I was struck most forcefully by the depiction of the US as an immigrant's nightmare, very much in opposition to the usual narrative of opportunity and success.