Roadhouse (1948)

Directed by John Negulesco; produced by Edward Chodorov

Pete Morgan (Cornel Wilde) returns from a business trip to the roadhouse that he manages to find that the owner, his friend Jefferson T “Jefty” Robbins (Richard Widmark), has hired an entertainer, Lily Stevens (Ida Lupino). Pete is miffed, as he figures the situation will turn out like all those before: Jefty, hiring the singer because he’s attracted to her, eventually tires of her; it will then be up to Pete to fire her. This time, though, Jefty’s infatuation becomes obsession, a dangerous desire all the worse because of Lily and Pete’s feelings for each other.

As Roadhouse starts out, the viewer guesses that it will be a romance and, very likely, a triangular conflict. But with Widmark as one of the angles, the second guess is that the story will turn unpleasant for the other two soon enough. This is precisely what happens - I don’t think I’m spoiling the film by divulging this - but the movie still maintains an interest for the audience. It in fact grows more interesting as the menace increases. This is due to the directing and the acting.

Negulesco had already accumulated an impressive list of good directing jobs by the time Roadhouse was made, and was able to handle a variety of genres (from film noir such as The Mask of Dimitrios, to drama like Johnny Belinda, to musicals of the likes of Daddy Long Legs). He handles the story and actors of Roadhouse well, making the most of them.

The actors are all capable, right down to the bit parts. Wilde doesn’t seem to come to the fore when leading men of the 1940s and ‘50s are considered. He is, perhaps, unremarkable, but nonetheless gives yeoman service in every movie he’s in. He added directing to his skills later and did as well in that field. Lupino - also to turn director later - gives a more subtle performance: without any really explicit explanation, we see how her character’s cynicism is a shield for unhappiness.

The real star is fourth-billed Widmark, though his role here is a variation on those which he had already played twice. Roadhouse was his third film and the third time he’d portrayed a character with psychotic tendencies. He must have been growing fearful of stereotyping. Nonetheless, his Jefty is a good study in obsession and how it can break down everything else in a personality. He is actually a sympathetic character at first, childish and naive, but not unlikeable.

The story is rather ordinary, without any particular spark. This may have been the result of having five writers (not including the producer, who was responsible for the actual screenplay). Multiple contributors to a movie’s script - unless they are a very compatible team - often create either something horrible or something bland. In this case, it is the latter. One possibly unforeseen result is that Susie (Celeste Holm), the roadhouse’s accountant and Pete’s general factotum, comes across as a livelier, more appealing woman than Lily. This may, however, have been due to Holm’s performance.

In any case, Roadhouse is a minor success: given another set of lead actors, or a different director, it would hardly have left a mark. As it is, the film is a moderately entertaining night at the movies.

 

Night Has a Thousand Eyes (1948)

Directed by John Farrow; produced by Endre Bohem

After her fiancé, Elliott Carson (John Lund), stops her from committing suicide, Jean Courtland (Gail Russell) takes him to see John Triton (Edward G Robinson), the psychic who foretold her death. Triton relates his story: how, once a stage-magician with an entertaining but fake mind-reading act, he suddenly acquired the genuine power of prophecy, and how it had destroyed him. Yet, with the dubious Caron’s help, he hopes to use his talent to save Jean’s life.

An interesting story, from a Cornell Woolrich novel, Night Has a Thousand Eyes has a good script that keeps one involved in Triton’s tale. But the real attraction is the skillful blend of Robinson’s acting with Farrow’s direction. The result is an effective thriller that uses both suspense and psychology.

This is Robinson’s movie, in regard to the cast. When not portraying a villain – which he could do to perfection (as in Key Largo, from the same year) – the actor was best at playing rather ordinary, slightly downtrodden men. Here, his character’s behaviour in reaction to his ‘gift’ is realistic, and creates sympathy. Originally, Triton was a bit of a con-man, pretending to be a soothsayer in taverns and travelling shows; he had a modest skill and people were happy to be entertained. He had a loving relationship with his girlfriend, whom he hoped to marry; they, with their best friend, were decent people.

Robinson depicts well a man cursed by a power that allows him to see impending disaster yet not do anything about it. The story cleverly makes it clear that whether he tries or not, Triton cannot seem to turn fate from its inevitable course. How he will manage it, if he does, may be expected, but nonetheless creates suspense.

Farrow, on the other hand, capably molds tension as the film moves toward its conclusion. Triton’s predictions come true, but not always as they were envisioned. The progression of his prophecies builds toward a climax that is satisfying. Farrow’s work is not spectacular, nor are his movies well known these days (except Around the World in 80 Days, of which he is the uncredited director of a segment.) Nonetheless, more than a few (such as The Hitler Gang, Alias Nick Beal, The Big Clock) are quite a bit above average.

The other elements of the movie are good without being outstanding. The supporting cast is adequate and includes Virginia Bruce, as Triton’s girlfriend; Jerome Cowan (in a rare detour from his usual conniving, rather unlikeable characters), as their friend; Roman Bohnen, as a prosecutor, and William Demarest in a mostly non-comedic rôle as a police detective.

The production values are standard, though, as in many old movies, they make use of settings which may have been common or at least known at the time but are forgotten now. Of particular interest is the neighbourhood in which Triton finds refuge in Los Angeles, an old district even then, but characterised by the ‘Angels Flight’ funicular railway. Such inclusions often enliven a movie.

Night Has a Thousand Eyes is a lesser entry in Edward G Robinson’s catalogue, but worth watching.

The Purple Plain (1954)

Directed by Robert Parrish; produced by John Bryan

Squadron Leader Bill Forrester (Gregory Peck), an RAF pilot serving against the Japanese in Burma, seems to have a death wish. Taking risks, even with the lives of others, he is apathetic about his actions when questioned about them. After the station medical officer (Bernard Lee) takes him to a local village, Forrester meets Anna (Win Min Than), a young woman who gives him something to live for - which will be needed in the deadly days ahead of him.

Few films with Gregory Peck as their lead will be bad. A true Hollywood star, he’s an actor whose mere presence can improve a motion picture. Despite Peck’s screen power, though, The Purple Plain does not really succeed as a film.

The acting is not at fault. Peck delivers a solid performance, refusing to make his character entirely likeable at first. Forrester’s unconcern with his own fate endangers others, and his natural charm excuses his actions only so far. The actor creates a character that is three dimensional. The other players do well; Than’s talent is not strong but capable.

The direction is also quite good. Parrish, a former child-actor (he had a part in City Lights), was behind the camera on a number of smaller films of quality, and worked in the editing department on still more. The latter half of this film, when three men are lost in the arid forests, is involving.

The trouble with The Purple Plain is the story. Despite coming from a novel by H. E. Bates, the plot doesn’t seem really all one. Perhaps it is a matter of the different parts of the story not needing each other. The romance between Forrester and Anna may be seen as redemptive for the former, and may give impetus to his drive to survive when he crash-lands in the wilderness, but the feeling given by the performances and script is that Forrester fights to live because that is his real personality, rather than because he now has someone to whom to return. Though the relationship between the pilot and the woman is central to the story, it does not seem necessary to it. It’s as if the author had begun one tale and finished another, though they use the same characters.

The screenplay is good, as might be expected from Eric Ambler, though how much of Bates’s novel was kept, I can’t say, and, considering the writer, is not among his best. The characters of Forrester and Blore (Maurice Denham) are well delineated; there is an effective juxtaposition between the latter, whose repeated declarations of having something to live for don’t keep him from despair, and the former, who apparently wants to die. Their adversarial relationship is more interesting than is Forrester’s romance with Anna, and I don’t think that was the writers’ intentions.

While much of The Purple Plain is commendable, its parts are more enjoyable than the whole, some of which - those sections the makers no doubt considered the heart of the film - could very well have been left out.

 

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

Directed and produced by Stanley Kubrick

In the far distant past, the lives of a small tribe of ape-men are transformed by inspiration provided by a mysterious monolith that appears amidst them one morning. Millions of years later, a similar monolith is found on the moon, and its sudden radio transmission toward Jupiter sends Earth’s first manned mission to that planet. What happens there will change humanity as much as did the monolith’s first manifestation.

2001: A Space Odyssey seems to be a movie that viewers either like a great deal or dislike as much. I think one’s opinion depends upon whether one understands - or believes one understands - the content, plot and idea of the film. It is a work of true science fiction, using science to create the fiction and as a central theme. I compare it in that regard to the highly regarded work of literary fiction, Mission of Gravity.

One of the problems with real science fiction is that it can be highly technical or involve rather a lot of exposition, neither of which are bad, but can be off-putting. 2001 avoids this - though not to the extent of some films - largely by implying scientific explanations. Compare it to another, much simpler, movie from nine years later, Star Wars, which, though enjoyable, is an example of another genre - that of fantasy sword-and-sorcery - dressed up as science fiction: it has no science - indeed, it could have taken place in the Dark Ages or in World War Two with very little change of plot - and has proved immensely popular and enduring.

2001 avoids extenuated exposition, but it introduces another element, which may be seen as beyond science fiction, while remaining a part of it. The monolith that appears at various times in the movie represents both the power and intentions of what is probably a vastly superior alien race, intent on evolving humanity. That their - or its - motives are never touched upon, that the origins of their power are left unexplained, gives the impression of magic - something merely wished to be accomplished. And yet is not science often seen as that to those who don’t comprehend it? This is one of the reasons, I think, why explanation is omitted.

Therefore, much of the film is given to the viewer free of interpretation, and the viewer must sort it out on his own. This can sit uneasily with many who prefer plots and complications explicitly explained. The movie has what one might call a European feel to it, especially in its disregard of dialogue through much of its extent. (The first and last twenty minutes are entirely free of speech.) This encourages further thought by the viewer.

It is this reliance on sight that has generated much criticism, though I find it strange that a visual art medium such as a motion picture should be criticized for conveying much of a story in images.

This leads naturally into the topic of direction, which is the greatest strength of 2001. It is a visually impressive, at times astounding, film. The vision of Kubrick is expansive and detailed. It is equally successful in depicting the vastness of space as it is the fear of a simple animal-like proto-human trying to survive a night in the wilderness. Much of what we see is concerned with fixing the atmosphere of a place or event; much of the direction is meant to convey feeling.

The movie is unusually short on dialogue, and what it has is unremarkable; vastly so, and, except for some segments, such as that involving HAL, the super-computer, much might as well be left out. The ordinary quality of the dialogue – along with the hospital-like sterility of the sets - gives the paradoxical impression that the future, while filled with interesting aspects, is itself rather boring.

Acting gets rather left behind by the direction, production values and special effects. The sparsity - what many have called the banality - of the dialogue should not obscure the quality of the acting, when it is given a chance. Astonishingly, the heavy make-up and body suits worn by the actors portraying early humans does not erode their ability to tell the viewer exactly what needs telling, while Keir Dullea - the only player with a sizeable role, aside from Gary Lockwood - does very well. His brief expression when he realises that HAL has gotten the better of him says more than a thousand words. The most memorable character, however, is HAL, whose complacent, superior and vaguely sinister voice (that of Douglas Rain) would surely never be given in real-life to any intelligence whose creators want it to be liked or trusted.

Though 2001: A Space Odyssey has its flaws - in particular, I found the scene covering an astronaut’s descent to Jupiter to be far too extended - it is a true masterpiece of cinema, most of it excellent, and parts superb.