Song of the Thin Man (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, edward buzzell, song of the thin man
Director: Edward Buzzell
The latter half of the series of six Thin Man films moves further and further from their source—both in the sense of those involved behind the camera (W.S. Van Dyke's passing in 1943 meant that the last two films were helmed by other studio hands) and in what they aspired for tonally. The penultimate entry, The Thin Man Goes Home, further explored Nick Charles (William Powell) by setting the narrative in his suburban childhood home, and the change of location and pace felt like a jump start for a series that threatened to grow tired. Similarly, Song of the Thin Man has new ambitions and is undoubtedly the most unique entry in the series. Unfortunately, if the idea is compelling on paper, the execution is largely lackluster. The conceit is that Nick and Nora (Myrna Loy) are now complete out of their element—the film, which takes place on gambling boats and jazz clubs, is effuse with contemporary lingo and youthful, hip faces. Whereas the married couple were always the suavest people in the room, Song of the Thin Man bravely casts them as out-of-touch. The thought of placing the 1930s pairing within the context of a radical new subculture is inspired, but it means Nick and Nora lack the charm and sophistication of the previous entries by design. The screenplay offers fewer memorable quips, and Loy in particular is hurt by having little to do (Loy's dislike for the film is shown in the visibly disinterested look she has in nearly every scene). If the film meant to champion the older generation within the new subculture, it loses its mark—Nick and Nora are consumed by it, so much so that even Nick's reveal at the end of the film is immediately overshadowed by the actions of one of the younger cast members. Song of the Thin Man is arguably the weakest entry in the series, however, it was an apt, bittersweet note to go out on, with Nick and Nora now settled into parenthood, so comforted by the security of their relationship that they watch the world pass them by.
Deep Valley (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, deep valley, jean negulesco
Director: Jean Negulesco
This quasi-noir from director Jean Negulesco plays as the director's warm-up for Johnny Belinda in the way that it details a deeply troubled, abused young girl and the men who become catalysts for her redemption. In her last film for Warner Brothers (which she was leaving bitterly, having just refused a contract extension in favor of moving onto independent projects), Ida Lupino plays the farm girl who developed a severe stutter after her father (Henry Hull) hit her mother (Fay Bainter) in the heat of an argument years prior. One afternoon, she happens upon a sweaty, shirtless chain-gang, instigating an eventual revolution that sees her creating a temporary home with an escaped convict (Dane Clark). As in Frank Borzage's Moonrise, Clark plays his character's vulnerabilities quite well—if he doesn't have the screen presence of a John Garfield, it works for his doomed, pathetic character. Lupino is too strong a performer to be convincingly "saved" by Clark, but the inverse actually works quite well. There's a terrific scene where Clark nearly decapitates Lupino after mistaking her as someone who might blow her cover. Wordlessly, Lupino slowly retreats from the scene, the drama of the event convincingly played by Lupino's understated reaction and the calm grace of her movements—whereas other actresses might have played it as an explosion, Lupino is simultaneously horrified and disappointed as she collects her thoughts. Deep Valley feels about a half hour too long, but Ted McCord's cinematography (McCord would shoot The Treasure of the Sierra Madre the following year) brings an expressionistic edge to the southern Gothic aesthetic, with shadows and crashes of lightning creating a horrific atmosphere in the troubled household.
Out Man Odd (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, carol reed, odd man out
Director: Carol Reed
At a pivotal moment in Odd Man Out, a painter (Robert Newton) finds the perfect subject for a portrait in the dying Johnny (James Mason), whose eyes suggest an uncanny beauty—the eyes of someone who knows that death is imminent. As cynical and grossly opportunistic as the moment is, it is an evocation of Odd Man Out's particular approach to impressionism, which propels the plot forward through feeling more than action. Crucially, the opening title cards inform us that the film concerns "the heart of the people" rather than the politics involved, and through that lens we can make sense of just about everything that follows. It's a film about what it feels like to die. Even the setting itself seems to die with Johnny—the early scenes are photographed on a clear afternoon, giving way to thunderstorms when things are at their bleakest, and finally to an eery, oddly calming snow in the dead of night that forms the atmosphere for his death march. Director Carol Reed would similarly use setting to inform the personal in The Third Man, but the specificity of the poetic realism in Odd Man Out lends itself even better to the visuals. Mason, though largely off screen for much of the picture, was the most sensitive of screen monsters of the period, and as his love interest Kathleen Ryan gives a startlingly modern, understated performance—the calm slowness in which she moves her eyes to examine herself in a mirror shows a restraint that someone like Newton doesn't show a similar patience for. If the film does not have the striking narrative appeal of something like The Third Man or even The Fallen Idol, it is one of the greatest evocations about how the night feels, where characters walk in trances as the streets seem equally threatening and serene.
Merton of the Movies (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, merton of the movies, robert alton
Director: Robert Alton
At the time of its release in 1947, Merton of the Movies had already been brought to screen on two occasions: first in 1924; next in 1932 as the sublime, overlooked Make Me a Star. The premise is an irresistible comic tragedy, telling the story of an idealist who nearly gets chewed up and spit out by Hollywood. In this adaptation, Red Skelton is cast as the eponymous Merton—it's easy to see why he was chosen for the role, although as such a noted comedian there is an over-reliance on gags (for the film to work, the audience cannot join the movie industry in laughing at Merton). While Make Me a Star focused more on the complicated, bittersweet victory in the end of the film, Merton of the Movies finds Merton almost immediately pleased that he finds success as a comedian, almost ignoring the humiliation he suffers altogether. It causes many problems for the drama—the suspense regarding how Merton will react when he discovers the truth is a narrative dead end, with this adaptation focusing on a finale that sees Skelton hiding from gangsters in a theater. Virginia O'Brien doesn't have the world weariness to play the cynic she's wrought to be, but she does show good romantic chemistry with Skelton in one knockout scene wherein she insists that he practice kisses on her.
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, charles chaplin, monsieur verdoux
Director: Charles Chaplin
The transition that happens from The Great Dictator to Monsieur Verdoux doesn't only reflect on the state of the man who had now found himself a public enemy, but a bleakness inherent to a culture in recovery from war. In the previous film's final moments, Charlie Chaplin delivers one of the great humanist speeches, decrying a world that is in danger of being succumbed by hate. Similarly, Monsieur Verdoux involves a handful of speeches wherein Chaplin espouses his philosophy, but in this case it is the reflection of years of absolute moral confusion:"Numbers sanctify, my good fellow!" It is among the most damning criticisms of culture committed to the screen—if The Great Dictator's plea was urgent but also hopeful, in Monsieur Verdoux the battle has been lost. But what is so interesting about Monsieur Verdoux is not just how confrontational it is, but how much of a piece it is with Chaplin's career. As with the little tramp, Verdoux is a man characterized as incredibly adaptable—this is the story of a man doing what it takes to survive, only whereas the tramp might find an innocent way of coming across a meal, Verdoux's perversion of what it means to make a living is a direct reflection of the human savagery that is paramount to his cultural context.
My Favorite Brunette (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, elliot nugent, my favorite brunette
Director: Elliot Nugent
One of Bob Hope's great genre spoofs came in 1942 when he directly satirized Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps in My Favorite Blonde. The film became such a hit that it was turned into a trilogy of similarly themed spy thrillers, pairing Hope with an attractive leading lady and a supporting cast who play things deadly straight. My Favorite Brunette, the second picture in the series, doesn't quite reach the heights of its predecessor but it is amusing nonetheless. Hope has now found himself in a typical hardboiled detective film, with elements somewhat reminiscent of the previous year's Notorious (including a McGuffin that involves uranium). That Dorothy Lamour is his co-star loses some of the luster of the previous film (which paired the bizarre team of Hope and Madeleine Carroll), but she provides the usual fine work as foil for the comedian. Still, the great juxtaposition is Hope himself in the context of a standard issue noir—the underrated comedian was among the most experimental artists of the 1940s in terms of playing with genre. He becomes the audience surrogate, a "fish out of water" struggling with the tropes of an all-too-familiar entertainment. If My Favorite Blonde positioned him better as an everyman (this quasi-sequel is winking even by Hope's standards), they both show his ability to seamlessly integrate his persona within drastically different filmic universes and keeping the narrative stakes in tact.
Brighton Rock (1947)
Filed under: Reviews | Tags: 1947, brighton rock, john boulting
Director: John Boulting
Often referred to as "The Boy" in Graham Green's novel Brighton Rock, Pinkie Brown is as frightening as gangsters get–ruthless, paranoid, and already resigned to his own damnation. As brought to life by Richard Attenborough in this 1947 adaptation, Pinkie is also a man who is seemingly incapable of empathy, having no sense of loyalty to his most devoted colleagues and finding the woman who loves him absolutely repulsive. Attenborough's large, doe-eyes are perfectly suited to the task–in several scenes early on, Pinkie stands in the background as his henchmen do the talking, but Attenborough seems to be staring right at the camera with a vacant expression on his face. Depending on the scene, his face could convey this sense of detachment or a consuming panic–Pinkie is as deliberate as any gangster could be in covering his tracks, but in that regard he is also a paranoiac. Brighton Rock follows the source material very deliberately, even if it misses some of the nuances of Greene's writing. Besides Attenborough's iconic performance, director John Boulting and cinematographer Harry Waxman make a concerted effort to do justice to the novel's boardwalk setting, which pays off enormously well–the opening sequence, which follows Fred Hale (Alan Wheatley) as he tries to run from Pinkie and the gang, introduces the setting and establishes Pinkie's persistence succintly. Hale's demise occurs in a haunted house amusement park ride that is shot with a montage of macabre, distorted masks and faces. It's an effective means of demonstrating the material's submersion in the dangerous underworld of Brighton, and these visual flourishes are the sort of detail that justifies the adaptation.