Reviews

Sluggish and stilted at the start (to the point where I began inventing my own dialogue for amusement) blind, bitter and frustrated playwright Van Johnson lurches towards The Eagle, a pub so devoid of character and atmosphere, it ought to have been called The Lame Duck! Gently sipping his scotch, he is almost immediately receptive to a disturbing conversation in the adjacent bar, partially obliterated by a participant on the pinball machine.

He may have lost his sight, but with one, two, three, four senses working overtime, he detects that someone is in grave danger. Needless to say nobody catches a clear view of the couple as they hurriedly depart and Johnson is left with only the whiff of a familiar perfume as a clue.

Senior police investigator, Maurice Denham and his anonymous sidekick are none too impressed by Johnson's fanciful, melodramatic musings. No doubt far more preoccupied with ridding the capital of REAL crime - wearing odd socks in a built up area and eating crisps without due care and attention - to take the rambling whims of a blind man seriously.

From this point, the pace increases, with Johnson playing detective, supported by lovely former fiance, Vera Miles and plum in the mouth, secretary/servant Cecil Parker. Barely have we finished chuckling at Patricia Laffan's phony Scottish accent, than we discover it was a genuinely phony Scottish accent, integral to an ever deepening plot. Parker adds some welcome comic relief, making endless telephone calls and undertaking miles of leg work in torrential rain. Meanwhile Johnson's own attempt to bring the culprits into the open lead to him being lured into what he believes is an apartment, but is only the crumbling remains of a bare room at the top of a derelict, bomb damaged building, entirely stripped of any frontage. It takes a murder to finally arouse Denham and company from their inertia, but for the man whose only constant companion is darkness, one daunting, final challenge lies in wait.

Distinctly underwhelmed, when I watched '23 Paces' a number of years ago. Viewing it a second time, the movie falls comfortably into the category of 'neat little thriller'. Not mega, but sufficiently interesting and unusual to hold the attention, proving that films are often worthy of reappraisal and in some cases improve with age.

Despite the economical running time, very much more of this unexceptional movie may well have felt like counting the hours as the finale approached.

Opening as a spine tingling creepshow, rapidly followed by gunfire and a double murder, 'Count the Hours' soon settles upon a pedestrian plateau as John Craven desperately pleads innocent of any crime, his case seriously damaged when panic stricken wife, Teresa Wright disposes of his gun in a nearby lake. The ensuing, protracted courtroom scene does little to reignite the adrenaline levels.

Sceptical, inexperienced lawyer, MacDonald Carey, is initially unwilling to take the case, until he spots Wright risking life and limb, repeatedly diving as she attempts to retrieve the gun. Carey is also confronted by the prevailing small town ethos (even evident amongst all the fun and games of My Cousin Vinny) in which everybody knows everybody else and nobody knows anybody who would ever do anything to hurt anyone.....Does that make sense? Therefore, Craven and Wright tick all the boxes as drifters, out- of- towners, new kids on the block, who simply MUST be guilty!

It's all rapidly rolling into the realms of rigmarole, until a much needed shot in the arm arrives in the form of loopy local loony, Jack Elam and his kooky, money grabbing, gold digging moll, Adele Mara. A femme fatale failure, whose feminine wiles fall foul of the unpredictable Elam and the reputable Carey.

'Count the Hours' has its moments, it's worth the time, but hardly the film noir fireball it promises to be at the start. Elam and Mara largely steal the show, well supported by the endearingly sincere, guilt ridden Wright. In contrast, neither Carey nor Craven radiate any significant on screen charisma, while Dolores Moran is serviceable as the bride to be. The movie always struggles to maintain momentum following its Wham-Bam-Thankyou-Mam launch. Perhaps it's just a bit too obvious, right down to Elam's name in the opening credits. Could you REALLY imagine him as a doting, favourite uncle, or the kindly family doctor?

Waves crashing violently over jagged rocks, against a moonlit sky, presided over by an isolated, almost spectral clifftop house, while a desperate man, trapped at the bottom of a disused cesspool rapidly loses any hope of escape. It all sets the tone for a movie as preposterous as it is atmospheric.

Dishevelled, down at heel vagrant, Kent Smith, comes under the gaze of suave, sophisticated, savvy but scheming lawyer Robert Douglas. With his educated English accent and pencil thin moustache, he is the template for the Tom Helmore character in 'Vertigo'. Smith scrubs up sufficiently well to pass for dapper, prosperous Malcolm Taylor, seven years missing and about to be pronounced officially dead, which will spark serious financial repercussions for his estate.

That a grubby, random, homeless man could be so remarkably transformed, have the confidence, poise audacity and chutzpah to pull off such a stunt, even for BIG money, certainly stretches credibility. To then arrive on the doorstep, after seven years without trace or explanation and greet 'wife' Viveca Lindfors with a slightly sheepish, "Hello Evelyn" is almost as laughable as The Disaster Artist's 'Oh! Hi Mark' moment. Smith also has to deal with hostility from brother, John Alvin, who loathes him and the advances of sister in law, Janis Paige, who loves him. All minor fare compared with the relentlessly barking, snarling, howling dog, Angel, who would gladly eat him...... before moving on to the main course!

Smith may look, sound, act and even smell like Missing Malcolm, but as always the Devil is in the detail. Small revelations start to arouse suspicion concerning his veracity. As the double crosses double, every ten minutes, the absurdities of the plot ultimately give way to something altogether more intriguing and absorbing. Whilst the stark, forbidding settings evoke the aura of the best goth noir. The largely second tier cast turn in convincing performances, with Janis Paige's femme fatale especially memorable in a movie which emerges with greater integrity than initially anticipated. Undiscovered by myself, until recently, 'This Side of the Law', is an interesting addition to my ever expanding noir catalogue.

When cavalry officer, Randolph Scott returns to Fort Lincoln with hot bride to be, Barbara Hale, the anticipated warm welcome quickly becomes the cold shoulder, from embittered, acid tongued widow, Jeanette Nolan and the few remaining men. Randy soon discovers that everyone else was lost at Little Big Horn......and it was all HIS fault. Had he and his troop been there, EVERYTHING would have been alright!

To add to Scot's woes, the inquest is presided over by Col. Kellogg (Russell Hicks), his future father-in-law. Pleading that Custer had personally granted him leave of absence cuts little ice with the frosty Kellogg, who continues to lambast him with an entire serial of accusations. Scott is left with no option, other than to prove that he is braver than an Indian brave - and that's pretty much all that '7th Cavalry' does.

Scott sets out with a disparate gaggle of drunks, half-wits, slobs and thugs on a do or die (probably die) mission through hostile Indian territory, to reclaim Custer's body. Their plodding assignment being punctuated by a couple of violent outbursts along the way. Scott and hard man Leo Gordon exchange blows in a prolonged punch-up, piling through and displacing what seem like acres of undergrowth. Hopefully it wasn't an R. H. S. Site! While a confrontation with a knife wielding Indian gives an early indication that the natives are not best pleased by Scott's arrival on their land. Having successfully disarmed the Redskin, a moment's hesitation allows him to regain his weapon, missing the opportunity to nimbly boot the knife out of range. It's what Harry Kane would have done!

It all makes for a fairly entertaining watch. Like a 'Cup A Soup', it fills a hole. Also like a 'Cup A Soup', it's nothing exceptional, just a quick fix of a western. There are no jaw dropping twists, turns or surprises. No hidden meanings or subliminal messages. Just Randy setting out to prove he's not the abject coward, the big girl's blouse everyone had him pegged for. As if any of us would have doubted his street cred for a minute!

In a grey, post war London, where continuing austerity and rationing have all but extinguished the final exuberant spark of V. E. Day, two bitterly unhappily married old friends are reunited purely by co-incidence.

The once rakish wing commander and war hero (Jonny Phillips) has, in Civvy Street, become a dour, domineering, philandering husband to subservient Fay Ripley. A boozy bully, he possesses all the charm of an unflushed loo! Her spirit broken, she seems resigned to her fate as the little woman, with nothing more than a lifetime of berating and belittling ahead of her.

Fascinated by the size of his wallet, brash, beautiful and vivacious Helen McCrory is married to wealthy, but tedious industrialist, Ron Cook. Short, stout and with some language limitations, his occasional gaffs simply draw disdain and derision from the exasperated McCrory, to whom he has gifted London's largest domestic refrigerator........The perfect acquisition for a wife who never food shops and can't cook!

Oozing pizzazz and self confidence, the ever effervescent McCrory is only too willing to rid her newly found buddy of her problem partner, creating the potential for a double whammy, with an insurance payout in the pipeline. The one good turn deserves another mantra does not sit quite so comfortably with the cautious, timid and decent Ripley. How will she respond to the expectations of her headstrong, at times overpowering friend?

Not especially suspenseful, but with a distinct nod in the direction of 'Strangers on a Train', a passing glance at 'Torn Curtain' and a fleeting glimpse of 'Saboteur', there is an undeniable, if playful, Hitchcockian flavour to 'Dead Gorgeous'.

The two superb actresses complement each other perfectly. McRory's virulent verbal outbursts and tantalizing facial expressions serve to endorse the view that a hugely gifted artist and national treasure has been lost. The talented Miss Ripley is equally impressive as the meek, mousey, toiling housewife, almost unwittingly dragged into a rolling chain of events, which at once solve a serious dilemma, while sparking a whole raft of more alarming ones.

Jack warden is a big man, who wears a big coat, has a big mouth, a big voice and a big influence over those who are under him, which in his opinion is.... EVERYBODY, because he is also a big bully and a big-ot! Small applies only to his mind and world view.

Sidney Poitier is his polar opposite; intelligent, articulate, witty and amiable. Conscientious, but realistically aware that he exists in a world of blatant hypocrisy and inequality. Content to make the most of his modest achievements as a quayside foreman, a small, unpretentious apartment, a loving, attractive wife (Ruby Dee) and a happy family life.

New kid on the block, John Cassavetes, cuts a mysterious, impenetrable figure. Poitier befriends him, unreservedly, whilst Warden views him with a deep suspicion, bordering on contempt. Estranged from his father, incoherent in conversation with his mother, Cassavetes is burdened by much starker, darker secrets. If Warden has a chip on his shoulder, then the new boy is stalking around with a 2kg bag of Maris Pipers perched on the same spot.

To save time, Warden takes an instant dislike to Cassavetes and rather than leaving him to confront his own demons, conducts an extensive exercise in muck raking and dirt digging, aimed at reducing the troubled Cassavetes to grovel mode. The growing tensions and prejudices involving all three, simmer, fester and finally boil over, with tragic consequences.

'Edge of the City' is not a great movie, but it succeeds in both drawing memorable performances from its main players, whilst staring down both barrels at a society rife with injustice, inequality and discrimination.

Had Richard Widmark never made another screen appearance, giggled hysterically in front of a camera or deprived Acorn Stairlifts of a further potential customer, his performance in 'Kiss of Death' would have guaranteed him immortality.

Noir villains frequently come in the harsh and brutal or sly and sadistic variety. Widmark is entirely deranged, demented and off the wall. His unhinged state of mind captured in a single ringside remark.....Ever tried tearing someone's eye out, while wearing boxing gloves?!

There's a protracted starter, prior to the spicy main course, which kicks in with the legendary wheelchair scene, making the opening robbery and elevator ride look like afternoon tea.

For the sake of his infant daughters and lovely Coleen Gray, who has resolutely stood by him, Victor Mature is prepared to assist Assistant D. A., Brian Donlevy, in nailing Widmark for the murder of Larry Young (not the jazz musician!). Spared a potentially tedious courtroom scene, the outcome leaves Mature and his loved ones in grave danger. Revealing his true character, he single handedly pursues a course of action that will push his resources of fortitude and courage to the limit.

Related through the eyes of the unconditionally devoted Coleen Gray, 'Kiss of Death' is a quintessential film noir. An initially slow burner, which develops into a dark, suspenseful thriller. Often disturbing and violent, but at heart a movie about remorse, redemption and reclamation.

Welsh actor, Kenneth Griffith sounds like he took Cockney lessons from Dick Van Dyke. Alfred Marks, remembered by myself, primarily as a balding and humorous man, seen sporting hair.....and a gun. Womanizing, pre-Bond Sean Connery, is breaking hearts, while everyone else is breaking bars, restaurants and nightclubs.

Beyond this improbable trio, Mr. Big (Herbert Lom), in cahoots with Mr. Fixit (Marks), have a light bulb over the head moment, deciding to bring together the disparate extortionists, protectionists and racketeers under one umbrella, into a single conglomerate, a super syndicate, spreading a plague of fear, terror and empty wallets across the capital, whilst causing senior detective, John Gregson an infestation of grey hairs.

All the nuts and bolts appear to be in place, but despite one shooting incident, a demolition job by the heavy mob and a title track performed by the then fashionable Shadows, enhanced along the way with a smattering of futuristic guitar licks from Hank Marvin, the movie never quite gels, or seems particularly cohesive. The frequent discussions, disagreements and dissensions among the various factions blunt any significant build up of pace and tension.

Words like immersive, enthralling and riveting simply don't apply to 'Frightened City''s somewhat lacklustre narrative. It's the kinda movie you can happily pause to grab a quick coffee, or check the latest football scores. In short, it's O. K., but not K. O.!

Sprung from Death Row moments before his bottom was due to come into contact with the hot seat, Edward G. Robinson and fellow prisoner, Peter Graves, accompanied by a hoard of hapless hostages, hard-boiled henchmen and Robinson's hussy are soon holed up in a hellhole hideaway.

Painfully aware that he can only fry once and adopting a nobody misses a slice off a cut loaf mentality, Robinson proceeds to call and fire all the shots, killing with impunity and creating a lottery of who will live to tell the tale of their terrifying ordeal. As the cops move in, neither side is prepared to budge an inch.

If the producers sought to create the most repulsive, odious, callous, cold hearted villain in screen history, they did a pretty good job, but what they perceived as a strength, ultimately proves to be the movie's weakness.

By definition, the genre is fundamentally dark, featuring characters of dubious repute, but the best noirs are notable for sharp, punchy dialogue, memorable one liners, often delivered deadpan, individuals to warm to or identify with and underlying themes of redemption and reclamation. Black Tuesday possesses none of these ingredients, as it trawls its grim course towards the inevitably violent showdown; just a ruthless, trigger crazy (he never looks happy!) hood. In Robinson's murky, miserable world, if it's not Black Tuesday, then it must be Black Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday or Monday!

Stitched up by key witnesses. A twelve year prison term, despite being innocent..... HE'S ENTITLED TO BE OFF HIS LOAF!! A night of argy-bargy aboard a barge, results in loss of life and scapegoat John Mills being unceremoniously thrown under the bus at his trial by fiance Elizabeth Sellars and her whiskey sodden father, while prizefighter and prize dumb guy, John Slater delivers the knockout blow.

During the intervening years, Sellars has married detective on the case, John McCallum, whilst her father has gone to the big distillery in the sky, not a place for tiny tots! Aware of his lust for vengeance, the police choose to monitor Mills' movements. Elsewhere repercussions of his release lead to the horror of a suicide attempt at a Tube station, immediately followed by the horror of a giant poster advocating the wondrous benefits of....cod liver oil.

Meanwhile, Mills has taken refuge on board a less than incredible hulk on a barren stretch of the Kent coast. Beginning inquiries at the local greasy spoon, Vida Hope is chatty, friendly and helpful, but as the kind of woman who would struggle to complete a two piece jigsaw puzzle, the frantically spiralling workload caused by another customer politely requesting a cup of tea almost sends her into spasm.

Mills develops an initially curt, grudging friendship with similarly damaged refugee, Eva Bergh, a victim of Nazi atrocities, but is about to make a shocking discovery, in this often bleak, but strikingly unpredictable drama, dominated by the sombre tone of desolate coastal settings and shabby, down at heel buildings, but equally defined by a number of engagingly oddball characters and moments of droll, quirky humour.

While Edward Chapman is taking a relaxing soak in a tin bath by his warm fire, escaped convict, John McCallum is enduring a teeth chattering soak in a freezing tin Anderson Shelter, nearby. Returning, not to the scene of the crime, but the home of lost love (Googie Withers) who offers him refuge. The adrenaline machine kicks in with immediate effect: An intrusive neighbour, extolling the virtues of lamb and mint sauce, the daughter's unexpected return to the house and a firm, but friendly visit from the police, just to confirm the penalty for hiding a convict. Having skulked behind a few doors, the beleaguered, bedraggled, ravenous McCallum is relieved to sneak upstairs for a kip and a Sunday roast.....minus the roast, before almost shooting himself in the foot, when the empty plate falls to the floor with an audible thud.

Family friction adds to the growing suspense, augmented by a rogues gallery, including an unusually surly Jimmy Hanley, smarmy John Slater and jazz musician Sydney Tafler, purveyor of hi-fidelity records, whilst pursuing a hi-infidelity lifestyle. All presided over by the procession of steam trains chugging across the bridge and the calm, reassuring, but not to be resisted detective, Jack Warner. Each will play a major part in the unfolding drama.

McCallum may run and hide until his Googie withers, but the long arm of the law looms ever larger and ....er.... longer. As night falls, desperation sets in. It's becoming an increasingly black Sabbath for the lonely fugitive.

Seldom has it been more evident, than in this seminal noir, from the austerity period, that for escaped convicts, those who harbour them, small time felons, fixers and philanderers, it never rains......it always pours!

Set in Newcastle, 'Payroll' signs off with nary a nod in the direction of a Geordie accent. 'Hell is a City' seems intent on delivering a relentless oral assault of variants on a Lancashire brogue, with the occasional whiff of Cockney thrown in. Reality is, like Scouse, Mancunian has its own uniquely distinctive flavour; the dropped 'H', merged vowels and a subtle nasal twang.

Comparable with 'Payroll', a deftly planned robbery results in murder, with thoroughly odious ring leader and escaped convict, John Crawford, on the run. Threatening anyone who refuses him refuge with a fate worse than death, it's no surprise that potential allies are sent scurrying to find a barge pole to not touch him with! Driven by desperation to hiding in attics and breaking in through skylights, it's fitting that the final showdown occurs on a roof.

Meanwhile, betting on the outcome of a couple of tossed coins, a crowd of tossers, with nothing better to do, assemble on an area of barren waste ground, where the more money than sense antics of one punter begins to attract attention, until the arrival of a squad car......or six, causes the rabble to quickly disperse.

A long, grim history exists between dour detective, Stanley Baker and the dangerous fugitive. Trapped in an unhappy, frequently volatile marriage, he's glad to go to work for a rest and to plan the arrest of the murderous Crawford.

Less overtly raw, abrasive and violent than 'Payroll', 'Hell is a City' scores points through taut performances and a constant sense of threat. The ominous spectre of the insidious Crawford is never far away.

An exotic location, a mysterious suicide, or is it murder? A curiously unemotional wife, doubling as a sassy nightclub singer and Max Fabian (Alexander Scourby), the shady confidante, offering a shoulder to cry on. All presided over by appropriately named Inspector Smythe (Torin Thatcher), striving to keep a prim, stiff upper lipped lid on the entire affair.

UNTIL......into this maelstrom of corruption and intrigue strides straight talking Glenn Ford, the dead man's brother, at his rugged, no-nonsense, feather ruffling best! A stormy, last train to rowsville, soap opera style start rapidly ignites a steamy chemistry between the two leads, leaving Scourby, cinema's ultimate slimeball, a man who could not be more oily had he spent a night fully clothed immersed in a vat of Castrol GTX, quietly seething.

It all finally kicks off during a fractious evening at Max's lavish home: Heated exchanges and a torrent of drunken bunkum from Valerie Bettis, before the night's entertainment concludes with a tremulous door slamming exhibition. Subterfuge is afoot, Ford's life is in danger, but, despite the mounting tension, the choker close ups of an emotionally wrought Hayworth, the giveaway facial expressions, attempting (not very successfully) to disguise alarm, guilt, suspicion and..... for all we know, constipation, it all seems a bit er....forced!

It's not quite noir by numbers, but there's something stiff, calculated and overly commercial about the whole shebang, with Hayworth's carefully interspersed musical numbers and Ford's regulation tough guy routine, 'Affair in Trinidad' comes off more as a showcase for its stars rather than any passionate desire to relate a gripping story. Hamstrung by its pervading, respectable bow tie decorum, the result is something polished and stylized, glitzy rather than gritty.

Michael Craig has a fast car, it's a Jaguar. William Lucas drives a Ford Popular, popular a decade earlier. These chalk and cheese characters are integral to the planning and success of a daring security van heist. Craig is the ruthless, stop at nothing robber. Lucas, the jittery, bite yer fingernails down to the elbows, inside man.

With boastful claims about the newly introduced van's safe as houses structure and state of the art technology, as the gang prepare and the tough, occasionally violent modern jazz score kicks in, there is a sense of predictability. Needless to say, setbacks occur on the day. Stuck in a traffic jam, the truck (central to the operation) contrives to convert a three point turn into a 103 point turn attracting police attention along the way......obviously!

When the robbery results in the death of the van driver and the fatal shooting of a gang member, every thing starts to unravel. Guilt ridden Kenneth Griffith joins Lucas as newly signed up members to The Lachrymose Club, whilst Craig and Tom Bell turn on each other in a welter of greed and jealousy. As the police talk a good game, but do little else, widowed Billie Whitelaw remains calm and unflappable. Calculatedly targeting the weakest link, unhappily married to Francoise Prevost; (they never get along like a house on fire!) she spooks and intimidates the already broken Lucas through stealth and secrecy, hoping that her composed approach will lead to the main protagonist.

Grim and unforgiving. The polar opposite of the previous year's 'League of Gentlemen', 'Payroll' takes on an unremittingly tense and abrasive tone. The only minor gripe: Whitelaw is clearly seen leaping aboard a Newcastle Transport bus.....yet there's not a hint of a Geordie accent from start to finish.... Wae aye man!

Can't recall the last time I saw a 'Bobby' on the beat. Every time Jack Hawkins and his meticulously prepared mob look around there seems to be a constable going through his; ' 'Ello, 'ello, 'ello, what's goin' on 'ere then?' routine. It's always a distractor, something spurious or trivial, a clever ploy, a smartly inserted tension builder, as the 'gang' proceed towards their elaborately conceived cash builder.

Gang seems an unduly harsh term to describe Hawkins' crack team of likeable rogues, bonded by public school and military backgrounds. Each harbours a shameful, or at least, hugely embarrassing secret, which Hawkins unhesitatingly reveals, to let them know who's in charge and all are united by financial or romantic problems - just to whet the appetite for a shot at some easy money.

Not quite the comedy, it's sometimes billed as, but not taking itself very seriously is the movie's trump card. The prospect of a masked gunman firmly, but courteously addressing startled bank workers and customers with; "Doo es you are teold end no one will get heurt" certainly raises a smile. Imagine getting such decorum from Lee Marvin!

Hawkins leaves no left turn unstoned in his precise, punctilious, planning. Regardless of what penalty lies in store, he cannot be charged for failing to do his homework. Will the master mind's efforts pay dividends, or will the drinks taken in such convivial fashion, ultimately be administered through an intravenous drip?

'Lost Lagoon' is a movie inextricably trapped in its own identity crisis. The quirky, sometimes banal calypso interludes: LIGHT COMEDY. The narrative, of an unhappily married middle aged man (Jeffrey Lynn) 'lost' at sea, clambering ashore on a remote island, having swallowed most of the ocean and finding love with a much younger woman (Leila Barry): FANTASY. The unwelcome arrival of a former boyfriend: LOVE TRIANGLE. The even more unwelcome arrival of the wife: er.... LOVE QUADRANGLE. A most unwelcome visit by the no stone left unturned, dog with a bone, insurance investigator: DRAMA.

'Lagoon' strives to be all of the above, but succeeds in being none of them. Curiously unfocused, unsatisfactorily flaccid and unconvincingly acted, it's little more than a featherweight ball of fluff. Somewhere along the way, 'Lost Lagoon' has lost its marbles.

In the aftermath of a violent robbery, the "Ahm gonna clean up this town" mob are out in force targeting four miscreants; guilty by association, Anne Baxter, past her sell by date floozy, Miriam Hopkins, career drunk, Billy Lynn and dapper cardsharp, Dale Robertson, driving them away, in the direction of an icy wilderness, supplied only with a portion of chicken so scraggy, it would raise customer complaints on the Kids' Menu at KFC! With Craig Hill and heavily pregnant Barbara Bates joining the group, the chicken seems especially paltry.

Self styled leader of the pack, Robertson, locates a desolate, isolated cabin, affording only the meagrest refuge from the ensuing storm. From this point everything that could go wrong.....does! Amidst deepening snow and plunging temperatures, the blocked chimney creates a serious smoke hazard. Oh!......and did I mention that all their horses escape? No doubt in search of warmer weather.

Only a visit from the Abominable Snowman could further aggravate the situation and sadistic, gun toting Cameron Mitchell duly obliges, keen to lay hands on 'his' money and his moll. The treacherous, trigger happy outlaw proceeds to hold the woeful bunch hostage, but as blizzard conditions grow more severe, the last morsel of chicken disappears along with any likely chance of escape. As reality hits home, the gunman becomes increasingly edgy and agitated, while Robertson retains a cool, pragmatic exterior. Could the gambler now be holding all the cards?

The starkly beautiful black and white cinematography perfectly captures the bleak, sombre mood of this gritty, atmospheric, noirish western, with its pervading themes of rejection, isolation and confinement. Unusual and unappreciated, 'Poker Flat' is a minimalist classic of its genre.

Within minutes, one could be forgiven for thinking that the elusive monkey of the title is the director, making a Hitchcock style cameo appearance and for questioning Hollywood stalwart Richard Conte's integrity for signing up to this clunker. Throw in a low budget, lo-fi, occasionally laughable score, which sounds like it was performed by the same outfit responsible for Ed Wood's 'Jailbait' and it quickly appears that this bargain basement yarn about the bumping off of eminent scientists is headed straight for the buffers. A total train wreck of a movie!

When the brainbox behind guided missiles has a stop over in London en route to the U. S. A., despite embarrassing lapses in security and a dismissal of the monkey's existence, the authorities remain calm and bullishly stiff upper lipped. Most people would have gone ape! Visiting State Department agent Conte is given assurances regarding safety, but soon our hero has a harsh reality check. Exasperated by inert British police, hampered and harangued, by probing, all mouth and trousers reporter, Colin Gordon, kidnapped and beaten to a pulp by Russian agents, he still finds time for several stiff drinks and a spot of romance with Rona Anderson, clearly not put off by his extensive bruising and black eye.

Continued viewing spurs a combination of mirth and macabre fascination, until......wait a minute, the momentum picks up, tension mounts and against all expectations a passably noirish thriller emerges, leading to a finale in which the monkey and a midget martian contrive to (almost) steal the show, endorsing the adage; 'Never work with animals or children'.

Talk about growing up too quickly! At seventeen, Manuela (Elsa Martinelli), is already widowed and now a stowaway aboard rickety, tramp freighter, 'Conway Castle', in a determined bid to reach England.

Upon her discovery, steely eyed, hot tempered, hard drinking, bottle smashing captain Trevor Howard pledges to put her ashore along with crew member (not so super) Mario, responsible for smuggling her aboard, at the nearest point, a grim, barely inhabited island. Harsh treatment, but when you are the skipper, you're entitled to go overboard once in a while!

Gradually, Howard's fiery temper is tempered as he reveals a softer, more philosophical side to his character. Becoming increasingly self deprecating and introspective, followed by an outpouring of genuine love.

Life is clearly full of surprises in the Merchant Navy. One day you're the captain of a cargo ship, the next, you've joined The Drifters. 'Manuela' suddenly takes an unexpectedly dramatic turn and unleashes a further sombre, reflective twist before disappearing over the horizon.

Amongst Howard's motley crew are jittery, but strangely remote chaplain, Donald Pleasence and a bearded Warren Mitchell, apparently intent on performing his entire repertoire of accents and dialects.

A lost movie in an ocean of lost movies, but worth salvaging, if you are prepared to dive deep.

With an opening sequence bearing a striking resemblance to Bogart's 'Dark Passage', convicted murderer, Kieron Moore escapes prison aboard a truck in a determined bid to prove his innocence. From this point, similarities between the two movies rapidly blur. There is no plastic surgery and Paul Henreid is a far less glamorous confidante than Lauren Bacall! More crucially, 'Mantrap' is a significantly inferior piece of work.

News that Moore is on the run, seriously ruffles the feathers of ex-wife Lois Maxwell, now a successful writer, whilst senior detective, Lloyd Lamble creates an elaborate board game from shunting police cars around the capital in an attempt to snare the convict. Meanwhile, astute lawyer, turned investigator, Henreid has rooted himself at the derelict, bomb site crime scene, where his prolonged patience is rewarded, when Moore finally returns.

Going forward, 'Mantrap' is essentially a talking picture, rather than a moving picture. Just revealing the filling in the sandwich which Henreid offers to the ravenous Moore would have boosted the interest level. The belated chase sequence looks like it was tacked on as an afterthought. The bad guy almost having to be persuaded to make a break for it, whilst everyone's attention is diverted elsewhere.

A second viewing, reveals a few previously unappreciated subtleties and nuances, at least partially lifting the movie out of the miasma of mediocrity, but it's fine margins. For real punch and potency, delivered with panache and pizzazz, check out the aforementioned 'Dark Passage'.

The economical 56 minute- leave yer seat to buy a choc-ice and miss most of it- running time seems just about right for this low budget, low key noir, which quickly settles into an efficiently haunting groove.

Injured marine, William Terry, invalided out of service, is lured by a series of letters to the residence of lonely, disturbed Helen Thimig to meet her lovely daughter, who exists......only in the form of an imposing portrait, which dominates a wall of her gloomy, austere home.

Frustrated by the mounting excuses for the girl's prolonged absence, Terry begins to form a close friendship with local doctor, Virginia Grey.

The irrational, insane jealousy of the increasingly deranged Thimig, triggers alarm bells in her companion (Edith Barrett). A naturally timid and guileless character, will she have the necessary chops to alert the couple of the impending threat, as Thimig's conduct grows ever more unpredictable?

'Strangers' retains a darkly sombre resonance throughout. Nobody appears to be in the mood to break into a 'doodee-doobee-doo' or a 'dah-dah-dah-dah-dah' any time soon!

The movie is most notable for the negative, suspicious attitude of the time, expressed towards Virginia Grey's character, as a female doctor.

It works on about the level of a middle school creative writing lesson, with students assigned to produce their own crime story.

Cultured, cigar smoking, dome headed, gourmet wannabe Jack Carter (Derek Francis) is the mastermind behind a series of laughably gauche, but surprisingly successful lorry heists.

Likeable, do anything for anyone, anytime, Anthony Booth (prior to finding immortality as Alf Garnett's randy Scouse git son in law) along with passenger Jacqueline Ellis falls foul of the deftly planned...but still laughable hi-jack and his consignment of top quality Scotch soon becomes whiskey in the car, rather than whiskey in the jar!

Pompous, plum in the mouth detective, Patrick Cargill offers Booth little cheer in terms of recovering his vehicle, or its cargo, but is curious about the absence of his co-driver (Ronald Hines) on the day of the crime. Oddly, Hines bears a striking resemblance to Arthur Kennedy at his most devious and calculating, but minus the westerners gun slinging bravura.

Identified as the woman who knew too much, a couple of gang members attempt to put the frighteners on Ellis whilst she is taking a bath, in a predictably clumsy scene which succeeds only in putting the 'sigh' into Psycho. Responding with some of Grace Kelly's Rear Window resilience she takes matters into her own hands gathering information from ex-hubby and jailbird, Douglas Livingstone. The marriage having failed, due to his life of crime and his painfully boring insistence on including the word 'rich' in every sentence he utters.

Throw in plenty of interesting views of the transport from the early '60's and some modern big band jazz.....and you still have a pretty one dimensional cops 'n' robbers caper. Salvaged, however by its unabashed, unpretentious period charm, 'The Hi-Jackers' is a victory for simplicity, a wholly enjoyable experience.....always assuming that Ronald Hines enjoyed being repeatedly punched.

It's certainly an unconventional scenario: Volatile, temperamental singer, Gloria Grahame, suffers life threatening gunshot wounds, following which, friend and mentor, Maureen O'Hara confesses to a crime, which has every chance of escalating into a homicide charge. Case closed, finish yer popcorn, show's over folks - except that, despite incriminating evidence by the bucket load, devoted Melvyn Douglas is determined to prove her innocence.

Flashbacks shed light on O'Hara's own singing career, plus Grahame's discovery and rise. Although the movie continues in a decidedly offbeat vein, it never becomes engaging or absorbing, but increasingly immersed in terminal talkiness, dogged by dull dialogue. The characters exude little warmth, substance or conviction and it's left to rugged, craggy detective, Jay C. Flippen to provide what passes for comic relief.

'Secret' is rarely more than bland and benign, slight and superficial. Even as the climax beckons, it offers only a mug of Horlicks at the very point when a strong black coffee appears to be essential.

Sitting in the rear of a taxi, desperate, on the run convict, Vincent Parry hears a fishy story, followed by an even fishier one that has him hooked. A specialist plastic surgeon has the skill to radically alter his facial contours, affording him time and freedom as he strives to prove his innocence.

Wizened and grizzled Houseley Stevenson hardly looks like an advert for his product, but a week after the op.: bandages off, job done, no plastic surgery disaster and now he looks.....just like Humphrey Bogart!

Offered an olive branch by loyal and lovely Lauren Bacall, who has very personal reasons for believing that he is not guilty, with a new face and identity, the route to clearing his name seems less hazardous, but Bogie's battles have barely begun. Features can be changed, but not fingerprints, leading to him becoming the chief suspect in the murder of trumpet playing buddy, Rory Mallinson, whilst also attracting unwelcome attention from non-league crook, Clifton Young, who seizes upon an opportunity to make a fast buck.....or 60,000.

At the bottom of the pile of bile lies femme fatale, with miles on the clock, Agnes Moorehead. Nobody is bewitched by this insidious piece of gutter trash. In the long run, it would have been wiser to have channeled her energies into purchasing quality double glazing than wasting her life being malicious, vindictive and incriminatory to everyone on her radar.

A superior noir, which employs the subjective camera technique evident in the previous year's 'Lady in the Lake', but on this occasion as an effective tool, integral to the plot, rather than just a gimmick.

Beautifully photographed, capturing the sights and sounds, if not the smells of post war San Francisco. A city rediscovering its spirit of hope and purpose, following the dark years of conflict.

THE FAST- The cars. THE FURIOUS- Primarily, fuming, feisty Dorothy Malone, who doesn't take kindly to being kidnapped by desperate, on the run John Ireland.......and possibly a few irate punters demanding a refund.

Not that there is anything intrinsically WRONG with 'The Fast and the Furious'.....it's just a bit clunky and overtly derivative.

The hot topic of conversation in the opening diner scene is of a dangerous, escaped prisoner, but little interest is shown in the strong, silent, slightly shifty looking young man, maintaining a cool detachment, until a sudden explosion of flying fists leaves William Conrad lookalike, Bruno Ve Sota both decked and wrecked, whilst Ireland swiftly exits with his blonde captive.

The Hitch-Hiker link has already been alluded to, but when Ireland gives a false name, he chooses 'Myers', the moniker of William Talman's odious, sadistic character from the previous year's movie.

Ireland soon discovers that he may have bitten off more than he can chew. Malone proves to be more of a handful than Frank Lovejoy and Edmond O' Brien combined and is only seconds away from rewriting The Beatles song as She Came OUT Through the Bathroom Window, when the daring Dorothy attempts to escape via the ladies' room at a gas station.

Embarking on a race for the Mexican border, a caustic chemistry develops between the couple. Malone and Ireland deserve credit for breathing new life into the corpse of The Hitch-Hiker, though the movie's climax, with its neat tying up of loose ends, evokes little more than the agreeable conviviality of a Tupperware party.