Reviews

The Land that Time Forgot is a likeably goofy and well-directed B movie with a few oddities to keep you watching despite uneven production. I recorded its 92 minutes off the MGM cable channel in 2012, nearly 4 decades after seeing it in the mid-1970s in Piedmont North Carolina at the Graham Theater, which stayed open long after most downtown theaters had fallen to mall-plexes but remained limited to movies of this middling character. I talked some family and friends into going with me. Seeing the title on the way in my little sister announced she thought we had been going to see "The Ram that Tom Forgot."

A different title wouldn't make much difference for this film's reception, but no one gave me a hard time even though I probably liked it more than anyone. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote excellent action sequences, and the initial capture of the submarine by a rowboat is well-imagined and well–executed. As other reviewers point out, the film's direction is fast-paced. The talky parts are helped by a good cast—7 or 8 years earlier John McEnery had played an electric Mercutio in Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet; Susan Penhaligon was both babely and convincing as a femme paleontologist; Doug McClure was born for two-fisted roles; and the remaining cast took acting seriously like good Brits do. The submarine scenes were all convincing enough, especially the exterior shots of the sub entering the Land that Time Forgot via an underground river. Every reviewer justifiably gripes about the puppet-dinosaurs and the board-stiff pterodactyls, but the very first dinosaur shown, the water-dwelling diplodocus hashing on aquatic vegetation, is the best special effect of the whole movie, perhaps because water provided cover for the dino-puppet's manipulations.

The science fiction theme, however preposterous, worked for me. Odds are that half the folks reading this note think humans appeared by divine magic in the fairly recent past, but a great gift of being born in the past century or so is that humans can begin to understand evolution, which like God is a mystery to be learned one's whole life through. As I recall, Burroughs's variation on evolution was that, in the Land that Time Forgot, every organism makes a complete evolution from micro-organism to higher mammal, in contrast to normal evolution through a species' genetic variation across generations. When that likable native is captured early in the movie, for instance, he seems to be approximately Cro-Magnon, but by the end of the film he looks and talks (and fights) as homo sapiens—a cool counter-factual thought experiment leading us closer to knowing how things really work, enlivened by action sequences and fair-enough acting on the way.

Other posters are right to mention this film's formal qualities—strong acting, excellent b/w cinematography, and poignant touches like the villain's piano interludes and Carolyn Craig as the farm girl—along with the film's historical status as a late specimen of the B western film when television was chock-a-block with shoot-em-ups.

This transitional historical moment gives Heartbreak Ridge a hybrid quality, as it combines the movie western's intensity and depth of character with the TV western's bare staging. The script itself could hardly offer less to work with, with the back-stories for the hero and villain being provided only by Joel McCrea's Irish affectations and Mark Stevens's 2 or 3 lines about having the talent to play the piano but not the money or leisure. "Gunsight Ridge" is a good title, but if like me you wait in westerns for at least some allusion to explain a title, for this one you have to wait until someone casually mentions a border obstruction that will provide the setting for the final showdown.

The western in any medium is always fairly minimalist—the more I've watched, the more words seem only pauses in action, landscape, and music. Given such plain fare, skill matters more than brilliance: for instance, Joel McCrea could ride a horse, and the cinematographer knew how to capture his skill. Cameo bonus: the groom in the quirky border town marriage is the late Jody McCrea, who would play the comic Bonehead in early 60s surfing-beach movies with Annette and Frankie.

Any film with Richard Dix is worth a chance not only because he's a likable and powerful figure but he seemed to bounce around the edges of the studio system so that his films vary standard formulas in unpredictable ways. The Kansan's saloon sets are excellent, for instance, and the crowds well directed--other posts mention the remarkably modern dance number (with perspectival backdrops) and the extended brawl with well-choreographed sequences and character highlights. Outdoor cinematography at the toll-bridge across which several incidents of the plot transpire featured impressive depth and angle.

A big stable of acting talent also raises this film's quality, but I'll let other posters provide those kudos.

My only difference with other posters is their near-blanket condemnation of the Bones character played by the terrific William Best. Certainly most of the film's racial dynamics are regrettably stereotypical, but Dix and Best interact as two smart guys recognizing each other. The film's single best moment for me was when the Jory character enters Best's servant quarters at the Sager Hotel. When Jory walks in, the Bones character is READING, which suggests that not just Willie Best but his character knows that Bones's minstrel persona is an act. Further, when Jory leaves the room, the door swings shut to reveal a portrait of Lincoln.

A well-turned screenplay, efficient editing, good small-scale production values, and tense directing make A Day of Fury much better than most Westerns.

Dale Robertson is a better actor than his reputation, but all 3 leads are limited in range. The best role and performance are the Preacher by John Dehner, who helps any film in which he appears. Most Westerns present ministers either as comic-cowardly milquetoasts or as unrealistic studs who give up their guns for the good book. When changes unsettle the town, Day of Fury's Preacher is the first to lose his temper and threaten violence, but then he's embarrassed by his own failing and horrified that his parishioners turn into a lynch mob.

The plot plays an interesting variation on the classic Western formula of the Old Wild West struggling to survive in or against the Cleaned-Up Bourgeois Town. The taciturnity of Robertson's Jigade fairly inverts the man-of-few-words Sheriff typically played by Joel McCrea or Randolph Scott into a Mephistophelean villain who quietly but steadily chips and shatters the thin veneer of civilization until the townsfolk break down into drunken irresponsibility, foolish greed, and vengeful terror. Jagade's opportunistic power compromises the town's Sheriff, played by the physically imposing Jock Mahoney, whose taciturnity can only dwindle to mute puzzlement until the wild card in Jagade's deck--the punk gunman Billy Brant--changes the game and creates a clear path of action for the law.

The sets are few, but the director keeps moving the characters across each other in well-defined space. The film's most impressive quality is to open with an atmosphere of uncertainty that steadily escalates into tension or dread. But its most interesting feature is that the anti-hero Jagade seems to have orchestrated the story as a suicide note.

Much to admire in Bite the Bullet, but the plot, setting, and editing are so ungainly as to undermine the overall cinematic experience.

What's right about the film shouldn't be underestimated. Like a lot of 70s films, Bite the Bullet has a conscience. The representations of that conscience may make you wince, but the story treats its characters justly and insightfully. The Hackman character's recurrent decency to animals and humans creates a counter-narrative to all their suffering that bears good fruit as the story develops. The actors are all-star and well-cast--Hackman is in his prime, Coburn is best as a supporting actor, Ian Bannen was among 20c England's most likable talents, Candice Bergen looks like she looks, J-M Vincent shows good movement and range, and Ben Johnson gracefully reprises the old-timer from The Last Picture Show. The dialog and cinematography are often fine enough that individual scenes feel ravishing.

Despite all these good vibes, the scenario's too big even for cinema. So many characters, stunt doubles, changes of landscape, and minutes strain attention. In the final plot-turn the soundtrack painfully echoes comedies like The Great Race while the actors go hammy. Suddenly one sees the undisciplined, indulgent, undiscriminating side of the decade. The finish-line scene appropriately comments on the race's inevitable exhaustion, but I had to fight to keep my finger off the fast-forward. Anyone not so devoted might wonder why they spent quite so much time watching or how a director might expect anyone to care about so many many people for so long.

The Outriders fulfills its genre with minimal expense but maximal outcome. Only a few brief frames appear spectacular, and many of the pleasures are among the overlooked qualities of the mid-20c Western: laconic dialog, complex plotting, psychological challenges, friendships and honor tested. The budget and production values are always restrained, but the strength of the studio system shows in excellent lighting and color plus a number of realistic outdoor scenes blending finely with studio effects. Other reviewers noted the convincing mattes of Santa Fe, but I felt almost intoxicated by the deep blue sky-backdrop to the camping scene that turns from a comic riot to a dance of love.

The other virtue of the studio system is the stable of professional actors who perform their roles not to steal scenes but in service of the plot. Joel McCrea may excel even Randolph Scott in saying the most with the least words while never ever lying--the Western-hero actors of their generation internalized completely the cowboy as a latter-day knight, and the alchemy of script and star is fascinating. Arlene Dahl may be even more economical with her speech than McCrea. In the central dance scene she speaks not a word until a critical moment, then agrees to dance with McCrea only if he bows to put fresh shoes on her feet. The scene is all about sex, but the actors, the script, the direction, and the genre completely control the sexuality's expression.

In the supporting ranks James Whitmore, not yet 30, is convincing as an old-coot warrior-sidekick with kidney trouble, while Ramon Navarro--a former sex symbol entering his 50s--plays a Mexican padrone who's still got chops. Barry Sullivan and Jeff Corey remain menacing even when they're acting cooperative. Claude Jarman, Jr. is always worth watching but the director or editor seemed to forget he was in the movie.

I couldn't stop watching, but the less-enthusiastic reviewers have a point. The film fulfills its genre so professionally that it never falls below a certain level. But those same qualities make its most beautiful moments somewhat understated, like something even better might once have been imagined but for now they need to finish a movie.

I didn't read many westerns growing up, but more devoted readers of the genre spoke well of writer Luke Short, on whose novel this film is based (screenplay by Irving Ravetch). Another reviewer points out that Short was a city boy who didn't know the west, but the movie is full of cattle ranching and driving lore (more than the otherwise superior Red River).

Above all the story has an impressively complicated plot--lots of moving pieces, with a large cast of characters variously related. A nice surprise was the voice-over narration by a somewhat marginal character who is nonetheless present at many crucial scenes. Add an outstanding cast: Burt's always a convincing action stalwart; Robert Walker plays just the kind of attractive weasel that people fool themselves into believing; John Ireland brings an air of implacable menace to the heavy; Joanne Dru and Sally Forrest make you want them to be on screen more often.

The limits of the film's running time squeeze the women out from fuller development especially at the end, but their issues drive the plot with surprisingly adult themes: Dru's character raises questions about what the Old West did about divorce, and Forrest's character Lily finds a way to raise her illegitimate child even while her no-good brothers make trouble.

The direction of the cattle drives against spectacular outdoor scenery and some good riding scenes are the film's best testimony for director Richard Thorpe. Otherwise the direction seems by-the-book, and the story concludes in a gun showdown that violates what we've learned of the characters involved. Other reviewers are correct that MGM's bland production values prevail. But within those limits, the various parts of the plot worked together well, and the excellent acting added depth and urgency.

The few times this movie emerges from the tube, the listings rate it with 1 or 2 stars, but when I saw it in 1961 (in NC, aged 9 or 10) I remembered liking the movie and being confused only by not hearing Johnny Cash sing the theme song. David Janssen, the lead, earned his fame as an impressively intense, underspoken, and charismatic TV actor. The overall look of Ring of Fire resembles TV of the time when it filmed outside the studios. Except for the concluding spectacle of the fire, low production values prevail. Yet within said limits the direction is adept, well-paced, building anxiety and suspense while at the same time creating some reasonably complex characterizations and relations. The intimate scale of most of the scenes along with amateur actors and extras plus real outdoor sets and grainy footage combine for a compelling reality effect. Not a great movie, but redeeming evidence that serious professionals can make a rewarding film from unpromising parts.

Solid acting (Noah Beery Jr, John Anderson, Glenn Ford, Barbara Hershey, and David Carradine) is compromised by formulaic direction and a script that zig-zags, forgets, remembers, and improvises, but the action occasionally rises, and the preacher-gunman conflict keeps things on track just enough to keep one watching till the end.

From the distance of 2010, 60s cultural interest is raised by the film's brief, gratuitous, and confusing nudity, as well as Barbara Hershey's hippie depiction of a half-Hopi girl, but the biggest surprise may be that this otherwise predictable western was produced as late as 1969. Except for those 60s flashes, I could imagine my parents and their siblings enjoying something similar in 1955, while I would have wished for a hero less earnest and boring than Ford.

Among the film's skewed lines, the oddest may be that the sheep-herder side of the range war is first identified with American Indians but is then shifted to a polygamous Mormon. I'd like to go back to 1969 and be 18 again, but no wonder I felt confused.

I taped Devil's Canyon when TCM screened it in November 2009 b/c another western with a historical theme (Great Day in the Morning)was next and I had plenty of tape (I'm still an analogue guy). Reasons for giving it a chance included Dale Robertson in his prime, Steve McInally who was a dependable western heavy, plus Virginia Mayo's OK, but esp. b/c RKO in its decline often made uniquely flawed but curious products.

What's strange about Devil's Canyon (besides the absence of a canyon) is the prison set, which appears only partially, but the walls appear to be enormous hewn stones that cast off strange pastel glows that change with the time of day. As a complement to these eerie atmospherics, the script and scenario range from casually crude to bluntly stupid. As a friend once said of a similar film, "It's just like a porn flick except everybody keeps their clothes on."

The film's best passage--the attempted prison break--takes advantage of the set. The escapees anticipate which doors the guards will open and ambush their entrances, eventually controlling the entire prison, which sets up Robertson's gatling gun throwdown.

Overall, the direction and editing of Devil's Canyon overall are unredeemable, but if you're not asking for much in those regards, the film's visuals have the quality of a meaningless dream.

Posters' reactions to A Lawless Street divide sharply between most who think it's a comfortable classic and a few who complain of its poor writing and flat acting. I'm a considerable Randolph Scott fan, and Angela Lansbury looks great in her tight period costumes, but there's little chemistry and their script doesn't help. The theme of civilizing the west is respectable, with the town as "beast" a fair metaphor, but aside from horses and drinking, the words don't become flesh as Columbia earns its rep as the cheap studio. The only interesting part of the writing is the names: Calem, Asaph, Harley. The score is strangely inappropriate, and the second half seems rushed compared to the building of character in the first half. The populous cast is of some talent and interest, but some characters look alike and appear after such long intervals that they're hard to tell apart. Still and all, Scott has the power of his generation to turn any part into his trademark character of integrity, and Angela seems like a visitor from another planet or studio.

Iron Sheriff differs from most oaters or horse operas that feature wordless passages like long horse chases or showdowns performed under melodramatic music. I was reminded of western paperbacks I'd read in youth that, unlike those broad western film formulas, turned out to be thickly populated with characters with ambiguities, tics, or backstories. Instead of the films' standard linear revenge narrative, these novels' plots often involved confusion, discovery, and makeshift alliances. Correspondingly, this film's often-short scenes cut quickly to other settings and scenes.

Other posters are right that Iron Sheriff resembles a mystery--it uses a standard mystery-genre technique by introducing the actual culprit early and briefly but in the midst of distracting action, multiple characters, and a changing scene. Other posters are also correct that the extensive supporting cast is a prime attraction--another testament to the stable of talent developed by the late studio system.

Title actor Sterling Hayden looks great as ever but moves through the script on cruise control. After I identified the Sheriff's son Benjie as Darryl Hickman, elder brother of Dwayne Hickman of Dobie Gillis, my wife one-upped by identifying Kathi Nolan, the actress playing Benjie's girlfriend, as the future Kate McCoy, who would clang the triangle to summon The Real McCoys to dinner. Another treat is John Dehner, who dignified everything he appeared in.

Gloria Grahame is Roughshod's major attraction, but bonuses are Jeff Corey in a small role, John Ireland as a lean young killer, and Claude Jarman Jr. carrying as serious a teenage role as a western may offer. Robert Sterling honestly manages the male lead. All the supporting roles are a testament to the kind of dependable quality the studios were delivering in the mid-20th century.

The most pleasant surprise may be the number of women's roles--the four bar girls, each of whom has her own denouement, including the accidental reunion of one with her decently grieving parents. As other posters have noted, the movie handles such scenes with minimal sentimentality or chatter, so that the strong feminine presence operates within the proper western decorum.

As a student of plot, I felt continually (if mildly) impressed by the story's layers and crossings. The bad guys' journey interweaves with the good guys' journey, which involves driving 10 free horses and assuming responsibility for the bar girls who break down on their path. One genre hallmark of a western is the story's geography or landscape. The good guys take another trail to avoid the bad guys, which leads the brassiest of the saloon-girls to hitch up with a gold prospector. The only wince-factor is the dependence on Gloria Grahame's character's reckless driving, but when that results in some of her clothes spilling in the river, those clothes float downstream and signal to the bad guys where the good guys are.

A lot happens in about 90 minutes, but it's all a bit subdued like its male lead. Director Mark Robson worked with Orson Welles and Val Lewton, so the quality-floor is high throughout. The best visuals are the long shots through the landscape where the different parties see each other; otherwise the film's composition, in keeping with its feminine content, is tight, personal, and intimate. The final gunfight is modest but, again, honest in its way, like the whole movie.

Other posters complained that in Soldiers Three Granger imitates Cary Grant in Gunga Din. I'm a fan of Gunga Din but hadn't really thought of comparing the actors as I watched Soldiers Three. Instead I found myself admiring, and frequently amused by, Granger's comic abilities--of which he showed flashes in other movies but of course he was better known as a romantic swashbuckler or, later, a western hero comfortable with the ladies.

Another complaint is that the film is a Hollywood potboiler, but what's surprising is how much British comic style survives in this production from the West Coast of North America. The comic pace may seem "lazy," but it's familiar even now in the Brit-coms that play Saturday nights on PBS. Granger's timing and interplay with Sykes and Cusack are admittedly unspectacular but nonetheless well-practiced in technique and pleasantly warm with human feeling.

As a final recommendation, the story, characters, and dialogue may be closer to authentic Kipling than Gunga Din, whose screenplay was a free expansion of a not-very-long poem that contributes little to the film with the same title. Long ago I read Kipling's Plain Tales from the Hills partly about English servicemen in India and introducing the characters of Soldiers Three. I think there were later stories collected under the title Soldiers Three. Anyway the plain and humane style remind me of those early stories by Kipling, which gambol between stereotypes and humanity. Kipling's Anglo-Indian writings benefit from his youth and early journalistic career primarily in what is now Pakistan. The film of Soldiers Three seems true to this author's spirit.

The elements that gather in Odds Against Tomorrow include gray-noir interiors with fresh-air NY location shots plus a raft of charismatic character actors. Belafonte reminds how cool he made the 50s. Shelley Winters dominates every shot in which she appears. Robert Ryan and Gloria Grahame carry their pain and pout to middle age.

Best of all is Ed Begley, who turns throw-away lines ("Right on time! Right on time," he greets Ryan) to verity. His lonely fixation on his dog companion expresses the toll his disgrace has taken on him. Exiting the apartment, he gives a long look back to make sure the dog's OK. I was a kid in the 50s—the world seemed full of aging people who acted more or less normal but were unabashedly eccentric. An actor like Begley turns reality inside out. The everyday becomes strange and unforgettable.

But except for Begley's mediation of Belafonte and Ryan, the race theme seems dated and hammy, diluting the plot. I've tried to watch the film through, but lately when it comes on TCM I just leave the set on as I work around the house, ready to drop what I'm doing for another look at a lost world.

The only reason I'm aware of Norwood is that I graduated high school in NC in 1970. Our senior class was traditionally treated to a movie on a school morning in the week of commencement. The newfangled Park Theater (long since closed) on the east side of Burlington (now a Hispanic colony) was showing Norwood by night, so that's what we sat and watched. I appreciate the few details other posters made about the Vietnam war and Kim Darby's unwed motherhood. The movie almost sounds interesting, but it wasn't. Glen Campbell was a good musician but a joke as an actor. Broadway Joe looked great, of course, but aside from an occasional cameo on the Love Boat . . . Well, he was an even better quarterback than Campbell was a guitarist. Where'd Kim Darby go? She might have been Molly Ringwald's mother.

The description "camp" means more than simply a bad or bungled film. Something must draw the eye; some pop-culture elements for cross-reference help; dumb novelty helps. Cassandra Crossing has it all!

To draw the eye: The Euro train, landscape, fashions, and cosmopolitan cast of hundreds, but especially Sophia Loren and Richard Harris in their mature prime. No chemistry, but what bods!

Pop-culture elements, specifically NFL running backs as big-cast stars. Jim Brown's sentimental-sacrificial-negro-in-action highlight came in The Dirty Dozen, where he ran in his familiar style, but this time stuffing handgrenades into chimneys to deal death to cold, strutting, Jesse Owens-resenting Nazi supermen--only to be cut down by a mercilessly efficient German machine gun. Sob!--no fair! 10 years later in Cassandra Crossing, former running back OJ picks up cute little girl and runs her into safe part of the train, only to be mowed down by whoever those bad guys were.

Dumb novelty: In an earlier comment TrevorAclea praised Cassandra Crossing for "what is easily the best transfer of a sick Basset hound from a moving train to a helicopter before the train hits a tunnel action set-piece in screen history." Given the size of CC's cast, who could predict that an uncredited beagle would receive so much screen time? Or that the spectre of human suffering would be displaced to a dog whose water dish is infected by a sweaty Swedish pervert-terrorist? Further displacing, after the helicopter transfer the mournful but lovable pooch appears repeatedly on General Lancaster's video screen, where Dr. Ingrid Thulin pronounces the canine to be "slipping into a coma." Then, just after the train's threatened hippie chick is announced to be hungry, we see the beagle in miraculous recovery, drinking fresh water in quarantine from sweaty Swedish pervert-terrorists. Where else to witness such unexpected, extended attention to a hound's endurance and triumph but in the Cassandra Crossing?!

I taped Pirates of Blood River off TCM only because it showed just before Morgan the Pirate w/ Steve Reeves, which I'd seen as a boy, but my appetite was whetted when the first credit indicated it was a Hammer Film. For post-boomers' information, Hammer was a unique studio from the late 50s through the 60s. The studio's most characteristic films were in the horror genre. The plots of these films featured stereotypical characters, dubious motivations, and exploitative outcomes. But the studio had a distinctive "house style" that featured lush colors, accomplished acting, and, for those Anglophilic times (Beatles, Stones, 007), nubile Brit babes displaying rosy cleavage. Sometimes the parts all clicked. A deep memory is of being home from college in NC around 1970 and walking with friends through the cold to a surviving downtown theater to see "Dracula Has Risen From the Grave." We expected a campy hoot-film but ended up marveling at its quality--haven't seen it since.

Point: given the convenience of a fast-forward button, I'll take a chance on any Hammer Film. Pirates of Blood River is outside Hammer's standard horror genre, but the very opening has the studio's look even if it's set on a lush island rather than in a Gothic castle. The color is rich, and the Maggie character with whom Kerwin Matthews dallies displays the overripe buxomness that was among the studio's signatures. Her escape from her angry husband and other Huguenot elders into a body of water where she is eaten by piranhas earns the film's "Blood River" title.

After that opening, it's not much of a pirate film or a Hammer film, and the Huguenot historical framework remains undeveloped. A painted-in pirate ship appears in one gorgeous landscape shot, but otherwise the pirates grow peckish as they attack a village on foot and carry a golden statue of a Huguenot leader back to the river. Christopher Lee and Oliver Reed, who would later play Dracula, Mummy, and Werewolf in other Hammer Films, embellish their characters with stylish physicality, but most of the other pirates are only irritating or bland beyond their standard costumes. The islanders stage an impressive ambush or two, but overall it's a low-budget, underwritten adventure that feels longer than its 87 minutes. What seems most impressive or charming--and maybe a minor testament to the 50s-60s in economic history--is that such a film could ever be made at all; unimaginable today.

Most reviews here range from mixed to egregious. Except for a few shocking holes in the script and underproduced scenes (e.g. the Confederate ambush at the apple cellar and Stedman's escape with Ruthie and her subsequent death), just like a kid at the movies I felt swept up in the film's patched-together, on-with-the-show spirit.

Given the production's reliance on a cattle herd as its main prop and the health problems of its aging stars, much credit goes to the film's editors. Plus one must bow to the astonishing gift of William Holden, reportedly a wreck throughout the making, but managing his horse like a pro and looking like a man you or any woman would keep giving another chance.

Overall this film probably represents a pathetic last gasp of the studio system whose problems are worthy of dismay, but once again that studio system produced a work that soldiers on to some kind of colorful, noisy, almost dignified end.

Like some of the other post-WW2 baby boomers who commented, I remember Dondi in our morning paper in the 1950s and 60s. The strip had some kind of visual appeal--even though I wasn't old enough to follow a story strip, I kept giving it a look. The movie came out when I was 9 or 10, and because I actually recognized its subject matter, I went to the Paramount or State theater in downtown Burlington NC and tried to watch it. But even at that tender age I was aware I was watching a dreadful turkey of a movie. My only pleasant association with the subject thereafter was when Mad Magazine ran a calendar that featured a "Kick Dondi in the Teeth Day."