The Weapon (1956)

Directed by Val Guest; produced by Frank Bevis

Little Erik Jenner (Jon Whitely), playing with his friends amid an old bomb-site in London, finds a pistol in the debris. A scuffle ensues among the boys over possession of the prize and the pistol, still loaded, goes off, seriously injuring a child. Erik, terrified of being in trouble for the incident, runs away. Though he tries to return home to his anxious mother, Elsa (Lizabeth Scott), he is scared off by the presence of police, and is then pursued across the Metropolis by American army investigator Mark Andrews (Steve Cochrane), as well as the gun’s original owner (George Cole), intent on keeping his ownership secret.

The Weapon is an adequate suspense movie that gives the impression that it could have been much better. Though its 77-minute running time should have given plenty of opportunity for the story to tell more, most of it is spent in dead-end character development and scenic sequences of Erik roaming London.

At fault, I think, is the writing. The story seems half-made. We are told that the pistol was used in a murder from ten years before (the police are initially led to suspect a connection because both the bullet that strikes the little boy, and that used in the homicide, were of the unusual .27 calibre), but learn almost nothing about that crime. We meet an acquaintance (Nicole Maurey) of the earlier victim, but her involvement isn’t really relevant. Motive, victim, suspects: none of those is elaborated upon.

Indeed, Andrews’s half-hearted renewal of the investigation into that old case is without an object, especially since the police detective (Herbert Marshall) who headed the earlier inquiry is fully involved in the hunt for Erik. Andrews himself is an annoying character, rather unpleasant, though he is seen to change through the film. This change, however, isn’t realistic, given the events, and when we are provided clues as to why he is the way he is, they are not explained or followed up.

The screenplay creates a minor problem in the finding of the pistol. It is discovered embedded in a brick (or some other building block) of a ruined structure. This means that it had to have been hidden there when the structure was raised, even though that structure had to have been destroyed in the war (it’s called ‘the bomb-site’); at the latest, 1945. Yet the murder the gun caused is ten years old in the movie’s present, which is not indicated to be anything other than 1956. This problem could have been avoided by having the gun simply buried under rubble.

Aside from this small quibble, the story-line seems undecided on what it wants to do, or where it wants to go. It would have been preferable to avoid the American angle and have it written in the semi-documentary style that British films mastered in the late 1940s and early ‘50s. A police hunt for Erik, led by Marshall’s character, who might suspect that the original murderer is also searching for the boy, would have made for more suspense, and a tighter film.

In The Weapon’s favour is the direction, which makes good use of London locations, and the acting, from a range of performances of different styles, nationalities and ages. Neither of these qualities, however, make up for the lackluster script, and the poor results of its use.

Midnight Run (1988)

Directed and produced by Martin Brest

Jack Walsh (Robert DeNiro) is a bounty hunter specializing in capturing prisoners who have jumped bail. He has five days to bring in Jonathan Mardukas (Charles Grodin), a former Mob accountant who stole millions from a gangster to give to charity. A seemingly easy assignment – a ‘midnight run’ – turns into a frantic ordeal as the FBI, a rival bounty hunter and the Mafia join the cross-country chase, with not all of them caring if Jack or Jonathan survive.

These days, after nearly sixty years in the cinema, Robert De Niro in a comedy is not a strange thing. But Midnight Run was his first (The King of Comedy was a comedy only in the blackest of definitions), and remains his best. Teaming the seemingly unfunny tough-guy actor with Grodin was an inspiration. De Niro’s oft-seen screen persona of a volcano ready to explode is wonderfully contrasted with Grodin’s calculated ability to annoy. This odd combination works.

De Niro is playing a good man here; yes, embittered by betrayals by former colleagues, by his ex-wife (Wendy Phillips) and by his bail-bondsman contractor (Joe Pantoliano), but trying his best to do right by his own principles. For Grodin’s part, his performances were described by an admiring critic as being given as if he were trying not to wake someone sleeping in the next room. Mardukas is irritating, and this sort of character frequently is far too annoying for me to stomach. But viewers recognise that Jack Walsh needs irritation. He needs prodding to do better, to help himself; viewers also see that, in his own infuriating manner, Mardukas is trying to do that. (He accurately diagnoses Jack’s two forms of expression – silence and rage – as the cause of his ulcer.) The fact is that the two characters are both good guys who have strangely similar morals.

Midnight Run is not just De Niro and Grodin, however. John Ashton as Walsh’s rival, Dorfler; Yaphet Kotto as the FBI officer hunting Mardukas; Pantoliano, and Dennis Farina as the gangster, all add to the film. What they add, interestingly, is an increasing panicky energy. Though the two main characters argue and fight, they actually remain relatively calm in the storm that they are creating. The subsidiary characters throw in a frantic element that builds slowly.

George Gallo wrote the script. His other movie work, despite being both hits and bombs, has not stood out, and it may be telling that Grodin improvised many of his lines. And since Grodin improvised much of his dialogue with De Niro, the latter must have improvised his responses. I suspect that their spontaneous interaction provided most of the fun to be heard, and not Gallo’s words. (Anyone who has seen Grodin’s pseudo-confrontational appearances on talk shows, especially those hosted by David Letterman, would not be surprised at his ad-libbing.) It should be noted, however, that Grodin himself liked the original script very much.

The direction by Brest is slow and exhilarating at the right spots. There is plenty of action – punches, shoot-out, car-chases – and all well-done. Even the traditional buddy-movie scene of men in a car screaming in unison at what they are about to collide with (something Martin Short said defined the genre) is funny, with Mardukas castigating the bounty-hunting skills of both Walsh and Dorfler. But there are scenes as well of quiet friendship developing, and the finale is a fine moment of respect and admiration between the two principals.

Whoever suggested to De Niro that he should take Walsh’s rôle in Midnight Run should have received a raise. It fits perfectly with his usual tough-guy parts, but showed what else he could do. His pairing with Grodin was an strange one, but successful. They, and pretty much every other element, in Midnight Run succeed, and make one of the most winning of adventure-comedies.

(Readers may note that in the initial synopsis above, I spelled De Niro’s name as one word; actors’ names in my synopses are based on the movie’s credits, and Midnight Run was the last of De Niro’s work that featured his name that way. The rest of the review uses his name as it now is.)

Three Hours to Kill (1954)

Directed by Alfred Werker; produced by Harry Joe Brown

Three years before, Jim Guthrie (Dana Andrews) was nearly lynched by his friends and neighbours for a murder he didn’t commit. Now, he’s back to prove his innocence and win back Laurie Mastin (Donna Reed), his erstwhile fiancée. But neither task will be easy: the townspeople don’t want the past dredged up - and Laurie is married to one of Guthrie’s suspects.

Andrews made a name for himself in 1942’s The Oxbow Incident, in which he played a victim of a small town’s lynch-mob. Three Hours to Kill is almost as if The Oxbow Incident ended better for the victims, and they were able to come back and demand justice. That stated, the newer film, while not as good, shouldn’t really be compared to the older: there is less of the exploration of morality, and more action. It is, perhaps, typical of the lesser movies that Andrews found himself in after the short-lived burst of his popularity, in the mid- to late 1940s.

The title of Three Hours to Kill refers to the time Guthrie has to find the real culprit in the years-old murder. Why he figures that he will be able to achieve this in the time allotted to him is not explained. Nor is it explained why he chooses this particularly moment to return and find the truth. Another mystery is why an individual allows him to go about his self-appointed task when that individual has the most to lose.

A sub-plot involves the possible re-kindling of a romance between Guthrie and Laurie, though the latter is now a ranch-wife. An unusual aspect, at least for 1954, is the admission, explicit at one point, that Laurie’s son is Guthrie’s; this meant that Laurie, not yet married, was pregnant when Guthrie fled town three years previously, and that she married her current husband to avoid being an unwed mother. However, Laurie is not someone who stirs up much sympathy. For that matter, neither is Guthrie.

The characters in general are not very interesting, though gambling-house owner Marty Lasswell (Laurence Hugo) provides the most intriguing personality; he is not developed enough and remains a subsidiary character. There is little in the way of performances that demands any work above the average from the cast, capable though it is.

The action is adequate, though there is a glaring example of the old shoulder-wound ploy: someone receiving a bullet-wound in what is meant to be a non-serious location. Of course, receiving a .44 calibre slug in the right shoulder should at the least put a person into shock and possibly incapacitate him, never mind the near-certainty of shattered bones and deadly infection. Even so, the character in question is able to brawl and shoot (holding a revolver in the right hand). By the end of the film, there is no trace of the injury, not even a hole in his shirt. Whether bad writing, negligent editing or apathy, this lowers the credibility of the story.

The direction is uninspired. While Werker was a veteran behind the camera at this time, and he had done better (notably in He Walked By Night (1948)), there is nothing to recommend him in Three Hours to Kill. In fact, along with the completely irrelevant shoulder-wound, there is another scene which induces more laughter than suspense: since Guthrie isn’t actually hanged, the need to explain his dramatic hanging-scar (all near-victims of lynching have one, of course) is fulfilled by the loose rope around his neck catching on every conceivable obstacle during his escape. It may strike the viewer as something out of a Buster Keaton comedy, rather than a Dana Andrews drama.

Three Hours to Kill is a lower-grade western and, unfortunately, may make viewers think that it’s running-time – 77 minutes - is actually the time given in the title.

No Questions Asked (1951)

Directed by Harold F Kress; produced by Nicholas Nayfack

Steve Kiever (Barry Sullivan) is an up and coming attorney for an insurance company. Unfortunately, he is not coming up as rapidly as he - or his mercenary fiancée, Ellen (Arlene Dahl) - would like. He decides to indulge in a related side-business: recovering stolen merchandise on behalf of the insurance company and collecting a commission for doing so. He doesn’t care that this leads to relations with organised crime, or that criminals are stealing loot they couldn’t possibly unload, just to ‘sell’ it back to the owners. Kiever doesn’t understand that success of this kind doesn’t last long.

No Questions Asked has a good premise, but little else. The story is predictable. We can see that Kiever is going to become involved in crime more than he should, and we can see that he will become an accessory to crimes himself. We can also see that Ellen will return, after throwing Kiever over for not being rich enough. Nothing that happens is a surprise.

The script, co-written by Sydney Sheldon, is ordinary. The worst thing about it is not its predictability, but the fact that there is no imagination in the climax. We know that Kiever is heading for a fall, and that it will likely teach him a moral lesson. But that lesson is blandly taught, even allowing Kiever to be a bit of a hero. There is no sudden realisation of wrong-doing; rather, Kiever seems to feel hard done by, and a little ticked off by the universe’s sense of justice.

The acting is just as average as the writing, with the exception of Jean Hagen as Joan, a colleague of Kiever’s who has a crush on him. A talented actress who, while she seemed best suited to playing comedy (eg. Adam’s Rib), even injecting an element of farce into her character (eg. Singin’ in the Rain), could also pack a punch in drama (eg. The Asphalt Jungle). Here, she is in serious mode, but with a light touch that makes her character seem all the more real - and all the more the girl a protagonist should want from the start.

Harold Kress is not renowned as a director, and No Questions Asked demonstrates why. He is, however, highly praised as an editor, eventually winning two Oscars in that field. Here, he does an adequate job but no more, though, to be honest, he has little to work with except Hagen.

No Questions Asked is not a bad movie, but it is certainly not a good one, either. It is a time-filler, for when a viewer has nothing else lined up to watch.

Hoffman (1970)

Directed by Alvin Rakoff; produced by Ben Arbeid

A young woman, Janet Smith (Sinead Cusack), arrives at the home of older businessman Benjamin Hoffman (Peter Sellers), with whom she works but hardly knows. She comes under a threat: her boyfriend, Tom Mitchell (Jeremy Bulloch), has been stealing from their mutual employer, and Hoffman threatens to turn him in if Janet doesn’t spend a week with him. Fearing the worst, Janet is a most reluctant guest, though Hoffman may not be what she thinks he is -  and may not be what he himself thinks he is.

A couple of weeks ago, I reviewed Monsieur Verdoux, a movie many found off-putting because of its subject matter and the incongruity of its star, famous for comedy, being in such a film. Hoffman is in the same category, and suffered similarly. Hoffman did not do well when it was released. Since the star is Peter Sellers, many people assumed at the time that it was a comedy; after all, Sellers had made his name as a funny-man - on radio, as well as in the cinema - and some of his films were downright farces. A violent film noir that he was in ten years before, Never Let Go, was not well received, and Sellers was given mixed reviews for it. Like that film, Hoffman is not a comedy. It’s a drama, with some comedic touches. This undoubtedly disappointed many people.

As well, there was Sellers’s own reaction to it. Initially, he tried to buy the negatives of the film - perhaps intending to destroy them - and, so he claimed, start the movie over again. When his request was not unreasonably refused, he began criticising Hoffman in interviews. Not a few think his behaviour stemmed from the character he plays being so close to how he really was. The actor, renowned for burying himself in other personalities, was, the theory goes, afraid of people seeing the real man, or afraid he would be interpreted badly.

Indeed, a bare synopsis makes the plot sound sinister, though it is, in fact, a version of Beauty and the Beast. Hoffman, though, can be very off-putting at first. Janet accuses the eponymous character outright of disliking women, regardless of his seemingly lascivious intentions toward her. Some of what Hoffman says is very derogatory toward females, and probably could not be publicly recited today. Yet Benjamin Hoffman is not the man he appears to be. A hint of this is heard very early on when he exhorts himself not to have any pity for Janet’s predicament. Why would he mutter this demand if he did not already have pity within him?

Hoffman is excellently written and acted. The character of Hoffman is an intensely lonely man whose aims in trapping Janet in his clutches are very different from what she thinks. Life has reinforced what was probably a low self-opinion to begin with, and the story is the result of the only solution he can see to his sad and desperate situation.

Janet is not a passive victim in the man’s pitiful plot. She begins as such, but soon grows to know more about Hoffman than he would like, and asserts herself in surprising ways. The tables don’t turn so much as are given two place settings, instead of the original one. Cusack manages, easily it seems, to convey both innocence and sexiness in a character who, previously, probably hadn’t given much thought to either.

One might think that, if this is the true Peter Sellers, then that man’s acting would not have been required to be of a high calibre. Yet, for a man at home in someone else’s skin, portraying a real human, realistically, without hilarity, must have been a challenge. Right from the start, he gives clues as to what is going on in Hoffman’s head, when he can barely speak, seeing Janet at his door, and when he must force himself to act suave in front of her. The result is an increasingly but never entirely sympathetic character trying in his own untutored manner to win over a hostile heart (similar, in some ways, to the story in As Good As It Gets (1997)).

Hoffman is so damaged that he has erected a façade of contempt, and cannot express his feelings except through craft and artifice. Should the audience hate him for his at times disturbing views, or should they pity him, because he’s never been able to see how things could be? This is the dilemma that the film wisely allows viewers to decide for themselves.

Perhaps the best work that Sellers ever did – after all, it seemed pretty easy for him to conjure up comedy – and a less noticeable but very strong performance by Cusack, combine with fine writing to make Hoffman a film certain to generate forceful opinions.