Monsieur Verdoux (1947)

Directed and produced by Charles Chaplin

In Great Depression-era France, Henri Verdoux (Charles Chaplin) has been let go from his job at a bank. He quickly conceives of the idea of contracting bigamous marriages with eligible middle-aged women, then killing and robbing them. It seems only a matter of time before justice – or will it be mere circumstance? – catches up with him.

Monsieur Verdoux is often rated as a black comedy. Indeed, there is comedy in it; when Verdoux believes he has accidentally poisoned himself, one can easily see Chaplin’s Little Tramp’s antics in a darker setting. But it was not the sort of comedy that fans of Chaplin at the time knew; there are more wry smiles to be had than laughs. That fact contributed to its poor reception. After all, the public was used to Chaplin making them slap their knees, even if there was a strong moral lesson to go with it, as in The Great Dictator.

But this film was out of step with the times. Made in 1947, it landed amid a spate of hopeful, bright movies, with stories that capitalised on the mood of optimism following the Second World War. Monsieur Verdoux is rather bleak, certainly dark, with no sign of optimism.

The strange thing is that this film should have been made a decade earlier. It is set in France – inspired by Henri Landru’s murders – and in the 1930s. At that time, France was being rocked by scandal after scandal, making villains of politicians, financiers and industrialists. The country was nearing a civil war between its sharply contrasting political and social factions, and a story about murders committed by a seemingly respectable middle-class gentleman, with speeches about villainy and war, would have fit perfectly with the atmosphere of the times.

Aside from the bad timing, there are several more serious problems in the story. For one, there doesn’t seem to be a clear idea of what Chaplin wants to say. The credits state that the film came from ‘an idea by Orson Welles’, though I suspect that Welles may have had more concrete intentions. Monsieur Verdoux tells a pretty straightforward tale, though its later dialogue suggests that it was meant as a sermon on the hypocrisy of society: Verdoux compares a murderer, with his handful of victims, to a country going to war, killing millions. This comes very late in the script, and gives the impression of an addendum, something tacked on when it was conceived after the rest of the story.

As well, the character of Verdoux himself is unsympathetic. We learn his motive for his crimes and, while it may be a legitimate motive to him, his commission of the murders is so methodical and emotionless that it’s possible he would have killed people even without reason. He is a merciful man at times, foregoing the murder of a young woman – intended as a test of a new killing method – when he feels sorry for her. I think we are meant to contrast her loss and despair with the more mundane, selfish characters of Verdoux’s victims, who are portrayed as rather unlikeable widows or spinsters. Yet they are not really unlikeable (except for the shrill woman played by Martha Raye).

And Verdoux is not liked much by the women he marries. How does he achieve his courtships, then? We see only one in actual commission, that of Madame Grosnay (Isobel Elsom), and it is unconvincing. He is neither manly nor charming with the women; he is alternately uncaring and fulsome. Only when he is with the mother of his son does he appear admirable.

This last aspect shows off the principal merit of Monsieur Verdoux, which is Chaplin’s acting. He is excellent in the title rôle. Though the character itself is off-putting and a thoroughly unrealistic Lothario, Chaplin makes him seem real. Though his antics in pursuit of women would win no hearts, they are very well performed. The contrast between the parts Verdoux must play with others, and what he is at home, is intriguing.

Alas, this is not enough for a recommendation. There are smaller, almost immaterial criticisms. Though it is set in France, there are a number of non-Gallic names thrown in: a police inspector named Morrow, a couple named Darwin. Verdoux’s son is called Peter, not Pierre. And William Frawley makes the least convincing Frenchman since Dan Aykroyd in a Conehead sketch. As well, there is a plot inconsistency: rather a big deal is made of Verdoux’s outright purchase of the house he lives in with his real wife and their son. Later, we learn that the house has been foreclosed. How can that be?

Monsieur Verdoux remains a movie that any student of cinema – and, of course, of Chaplin (he composed the music, too) – should see. But it left me wondering about the missed opportunity of Welles writing and directing a possibly heavier, more dramatic, film, or – a dream-collaboration – of a co-operative effort between Welles and Chaplin.

The Dogs of War (1980)

Directed by John Irvin; produced by Larry DeWaay

Jamie Shannon (Christopher Walken) is the leader of a small group of mercenaries, specializing in Third World conflicts. Fresh from a war in Central America, he is hired by a middle-man (Hugh Millais) working for big business, interested in the mining potential of the African nation of Zangaro. What is first a single-man reconnaissance to determine the political and military situation in the country, becomes a plan to overthrow its corrupt and murderous government. But the plan itself may be no less murderous.

An exciting adventure story from the novel by Frederick Forsyth (who also wrote The Day of the Jackal), The Dogs of War gives what appears to be a realistic interpretation of a limited mercenary action. The country depicted is fictional but could have been a stand-in for some of the smaller nations ruled by megalomaniacal tyrants, such as Equatorial Guinea.

A substantial part of the script depicts the character of Shannon, who is seen as a cynical man, with an essentially good heart, but who is ruled by his almost innate talent for warfare. This character study helps fuel the story and provides a character who, even if he is not warm and caring, nonetheless provides a sympathetic centre.

The screenplay also shows the preparations for the short, swift campaign: the purchase of weapons, the arrangement of transport, the dealing with arms traders and with the mission’s sponsors. Shannon’s associates (Tom Berenger, Paul Freeman and Jean-François Stévinen) are trusted cohorts, who are given the tasks of putting together the mission, as much as is Shannon himself. Their international character (American, British, French) may not be typical of many private armies, but demonstrates the personal ties involved, rather than political or ethnic. The dénouement is rather satisfying, as well.

The acting is very good, especially by Walken. His youthful (he was 37 at the time of filming but looks 25), almost effeminate appearance might seem detrimental to the image of a hardened soldier, but is contrasted with the intense feeling of latent fury and violence that is also present. The other actors are not as significant, though Colin Blakely does a good job as a semi-alcoholic journalist. Jim Broadbent has a bit part as a member of his crew, and Victoria Tennant appears as a dinner-guest.

The action is exciting, especially the extended battle at the climax. This is well-handled by the director, though there are a couple of scenes included for effect, rather than realism (eg. no soldier would allow himself to be silhouetted by fire in an open gateway.) There is little sentiment involved, and half-way through, Shannon receives a beating that would make Jim Rockford wince.

Surprisingly undated, considering the film is more than four decades old, The Dogs of War is an entertaining but thoroughly violent film about a dangerous and thoroughly violent undertaking.

The Violent Men (1955)

Directed by Rudolph Maté; produced by Lewis J Rachmil

John Parrish (Glenn Ford), a veteran of the American Civil War, had travelled west for his health, hoping to recover from a serious bullet wound. He not only recovered, but prospered, in a small way, founding a ranch and earning respect from his neighbours. His plans to return east after marrying his fiancée (May Winn), however, are endangered by the greed of land-owner Lew Wilkison (Edward G Robinson) and his wife (Barbara Stanwyck).

Despite the synopsis sounding like a great many other westerns of the era, The Violent Men turns out to be of a higher calibre than the average oater. For this, the credit should probably go to the writing and direction.

The story has the usual villains, a young psychopathic gunman (Richard Jaeckel) and Wilkison’s cunning brother, Cole (Brian Keith), but these are varied by Robinson’s and Stanwyck’s characters. Lew Wilkison is tough, but doesn’t really care for violence and has hesitated to go far enough to win his war against smaller land-owners. He’s a man with scruples, who has admiration for Parrish. While he has his agenda, his wife has another and Cole has a third; sometimes they work together, sometimes against each other

Parrish’s counter-offensive against the Wilkisons’ murderous campaign is interesting in that it makes use of the veteran’s expertise from the army. He figures into his plans his side’s smaller numbers, and uses topography against his enemies. As well as tactics, he has a strategy that is much more than the usual simple shoot-ups found in westerns.

In a twist on the standard battle-lines, farmers (‘to the south’) are not seen as a threat by the smaller ranchers; indeed, they become allies against Wilkison. There is some consideration given to the dynamics of the situation.

Director Maté made his name as a cinematographer, though he added some impressive credits to his resumé in his later profession, too, including D.O.A. and When Worlds Collide. The Violent Men is not his best work, but is pretty good, providing exciting fight scenes and tension when needed. There is a swift gun-fight that pits speed against accuracy, another unusual element in westerns. Another change is that the movie was filmed in colour not far from snow-covered mountains, providing a difference from the familiar desert badlands.

The acting is very good, though with the players it has, this is to be expected. Stanwyck comes off least well of the stars, though perhaps only because she has the least to work with, in terms of her talent. Most decent actresses could have filled her rôle. Ford is suitably steadfast, and Robinson elicits sympathy for several reasons, not the normal audience reaction to a villain. Keith effectively coats a vicious personality with seeming apathy.

Over all, The Violent Men, while it has aspects borrowed from other pictures of the genre, is an exciting and well-made cowboy movie, higher in grade than many.

Follow Me Quietly (1949)

Directed by Richard O Fleischer; produced by Heman Schlom

Lieutenant Grant (William Lundigan) is leading the city’s hunt for ‘the Judge’, a crazed killer who strikes only when it rains. His task is complicated by pressure from his superiors and persistent reporter Ann Gorman (Dorothy Patrick), hoping to make her mark in journalism with the case.

A low-budget film that could have been much more than it is, Follow Me Quietly is nonetheless an entertaining and interesting movie. Running at a mere sixty minutes, it packs a good story into its hour. The actors would be mostly unknown to the average viewer, but are capable for all that.

All the actors contribute decently. Lundigan makes a good lead, and he and Patrick develop convincing chemistry. There is an effective scene in a car which highlights their interaction, when the audience isn’t sure if they’ll hit each other or kiss. The tension is broken by a call coming over the police radio.

The scene illustrates the capable acting but also the direction, which is the best thing about Follow Me Quietly. This is probably to be expected with Fleischer, who went on to direct such fine movies as The Narrow Margin, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, The Boston Strangler, Tora! Tora! Tora!, 10 Rillington Place, and more. Here, Fliescher creates the atmosphere that cloaks the movie. The low budget, the short running time, the sinister rain and, with purposeful irony, the dry, almost dusty environment of the climax, all contribute.

The story itself is actually routine, but without too many disadvantages. It is the script that is the principal villain of the production. Despite an inherent problem with any unnecessary padding, Follow Me Quietly could have used some, perhaps to flesh out the characters and provide more insight into the killer. He murders those whom he believes have outraged morality, but we never learn why he has chosen his particular victims, or how the diverse victims have transgressed the Judge’s principles. Furthermore, the police don’t seem interested in that aspect of the case.

There is a glaring problem with the script that is handled well visually (Fleischer again) while making no sense in terms of the story. It involves a faceless mannequin devised by the police to represent the killer. At one point, its place is taken by the real murderer, though the latter could not have known about the mannequin or where it was. Nor could he have easily penetrated to the room in police headquarters where it was stored; in fact, there is no reason for him to have done so. So far as can be determined, the scene was included just for a neat visual.

Even the title was ill-considered, since it does not relate to the story, and would have been better changed to Follow Me in the Rain, or something of relevance. This is a minor but typical problem with the writing.

Even so, playing more like a typically quick, cheap entry in a 1950s tv anthology series, rather than a movie, Follow Me Quietly serves its purpose, and provides an enjoyable hour of viewing - especially if it’s raining outside.

Cry Danger (1951)

Directed by Robert Parrish; produced by W R Frank and Sam Wiesenthal

Rocky Mulloy (Dick Powell) was sentenced to prison for a robbery he didn’t commit. Pardoned on the  belated alibi given by Delong (Richard Erdmann), a disabled U.S. marine just returned from overseas, Mulloy determines to find out who really committed the crime, in the hopes of freeing a friend jailed as an accomplice. Not guilty but not quite innocent, Mulloy is also interested in finding the stolen money, as compensation for the five years he spent behind bars. Those who really pulled off the heist, however, aren’t in the mood to share.

No one accomplished a change of direction in his cinematic career like Dick Powell. Young and boyish, he was a success as a song-and-dance man (eg. 1933’s 42nd Street). But in 1944, he starred as hard-boiled Philip Marlowe in the film noir Murder, My Sweet, and, though he was in a number of subsequent contrasting roles, became principally a tough guy thereafter. (The only actor I can think of who did something similar was Leslie Nielsen, who moved from a moderately successful drama career to the king of absurdist comedy.)

Despite the baby-face, Powell’s new persona fit him well, and it continued to do so in Cry Danger. His performance is strong and he creates a sympathetic character. Even so, the most notable performance is given by Erdmann. His character’s dry humour, delivered in a slow drawl, is the centre of each of his scenes, and Delong’s alcoholism lends a pathos to it. Also good is William Conrad, whose distinctive voice and imposing presence makes an effective villain. Rhonda Fleming is more than just a beautiful leading lady, and Regis Toomey plays a smart detective, letting events happen to his advantage.

The story is fairly straightforward, though there are some twists, some unexpected turns. Even so, the astute viewer should be able to see them coming. Nonetheless, the tale will keep the audience entertained. There is rather more violence in Cry Danger than in some movies of the era, though the climax is one more of tension than action.

The script is a good one, with some amusing lines in the usual film noir dry manner. However, we don’t learn too much about Mulloy; rather, we are told some of his history, which is not the same thing. Of the other characters we learn next to nothing that isn’t necessary to the plot.

Some sources list Powell himself as the film’s uncredited director. Whatever the case, the direction, like the story, is pretty ordinary, though it handles the exciting bits well enough. The Bunker Hill district of Los Angeles, a favourite of film noir, is featured in many scenes, giving the Californian city a look different than what comes to mind today.

While Cry Danger has a title more appropriate to an action-adventure movie, perhaps one about men hauling explosives over mountain roads, it is a good addition to the film noir library, and will hold the viewer’s attention during a night at the movies.

The Good Die Young (1954)

Directed by Lewis Gilbert; produced by Jack Clayton (associate producer)

Four men in London are each facing a crisis in his life: Joe (Richard Basehart) needs to take his pregnant wife away from her manipulative mother; Eddie (John Ireland) is trying to hold on to his unfaithful spouse; Mike (Stanley Baker) is at the end of a boxing career and needs money to start a new life. They fall in with the conniving and dangerous Rave (Laurence Harvey), who proposes a simple solution to their problems - the theft of £90,000 from a post office.

This is a heist movie with a difference, and whether that difference makes or breaks the movie will probably depend on the type of viewer, and what he prefers in his films. There is, in fact, little of the heist in The Good Die Young. What there is, is exciting and tense. Nonetheless, the story focuses on the four men, and why they become involved in crime, when three, at least, have never committed an unlawful act in their lives.

The story is by far the weakest part of the movie. One of its faults lies in providing too little motive for some to become involved in the robbery. Eddie, in particular, is plagued by his love for a wife who has no respect for him, and dislikes him. Why he would think that money would solve his problem, when a simple divorce would suffice, we are not told. He doesn’t seem to have any fondness for wealth or luxury, and has a thriving career in the U.S. Air Force. Joe, too, though he needs some fast cash, has no desire for a share of £90,000; just enough for him and his wife (Joan Collins) to fly to New York from London would do.

More specific than general motive is the question of why three law-abiding men would follow into crime someone whom they casually met at a pub. And the robbery itself appears poorly considered; if everything goes smoothly, then there would be no problem. But when do movie heists go smoothly? There is also the inconsistency of Mike’s wife, who won’t help her worthless brother at one point, but will at another, more critical juncture.

The acting, on the other hand, is very good. Ireland gets to play a sympathetic role, different from most of his later parts. Harvey is suitably despicable as an amoral, villainous man who is probably psychopathic. He is so bad, in fact, that it’s hard to imagine anyone trusting him even in the slightest. Robert Morley has a good small part as Rave’s father, a decent man who knows exactly what his son is, and probably what his son always was. The last shot of the father watching Rave leave their club is telling: a stone face expressing so much. Gloria Grahame is less of a benefit to the movie, as her English accent still sounds American.

The direction is very good. Gilbert was behind the camera for a diverse number of successes, such as Sink the Bismarck!, Alfie and Educating Rita. Here, his work complements the acting, as he makes the most of the emotional scenes and creates a suspenseful climax.

The Good Die Young is a crime film so much more interested in the criminals than their deed that it actually fades to another scene when the gang discuss their plan. But if one likes a character study of desperate men, then this film will entertain and, in the last twenty minutes, even thrill.

Night of the Demon (1957)

Directed by Jacques Tourneur; produced by Frank Bevis and Hal E Chester

American professor John Holden (Dana Andrews) arrives in London to attend a conference on the paranormal and its relation to psychology. He is, to put it mildly, a disbeliever in ghosts, devils, telepathy and the like. But when confronted with the death of a colleague (Maurice Denham) and the strange behaviour of Julian Karswell (Niall MacGinnis), the leader of a cult, he may be forced to change his mind.

Night of the Demon is an atmospheric, well-made film that has a number of advantages, and a couple of disadvantages. On the plus side is the direction. Tourneur was also behind the camera in the movie Cat People, considered a superior b-movie, and went on to direct Out of the Past, one of the most famous films noir. In his movies, lighting plays a great part in their success.

In Night of the Demon also, Tourneur plays with light and shadows, but with settings in general to create a sense of claustrophobia. This is especially effective in the opening scene, featuring a car driving in a dark night, through a sunken road, the trees on either side of which close up almost to make a tunnel. A similarly threatening scene takes place in a hotel corridor.

A decided benefit to Night of the Demon is the casting of MacGinnis as the villain. Karswell is rather charming, and in the disposal of his enemies, seemingly by magic, he appears almost reluctant, almost as though their destruction were something he wished to avoid on moral grounds. MacGinnis’s performance creates a smooth, believable villain.

The script is good, though the dialogue is rather bland. The climactic confrontation on a train is both entertaining and exciting. A scene depicting a séance is amusing and eerie, as those supporting the medium sing a Victorian song (“Cherry Ripe”) in order to facilitate the arrival of spirits; then we hear different voices issue from the medium, rather unnerving in their incongruity.

The problems are both minor and major. There is an attack by a leopard, which is clearly no more than the actor struggling with a stuffed animal. Tourneur should have borrowed a page from his techniques in Cat People, and worked with shadows and implication.

Then there is the demon itself. Its arrival is well-handled, a cloud of smoke seemingly opening a window to Hell. But then the demon is shown quite clearly to audiences; my statement here is hardly a spoiler, since the demon is seen in the movie’s opening sequence. Apparently, there was some discord in the production of the film over whether this should be added to the film. The demon is scary-looking but its presence is not. When observed materialising, half there and half not, it makes for a disturbing moment; when it interacts with the humans, it is little more than a big monster.

Still, Night of the Demon has the atmosphere and direction – and a fine performance – to recommend it: an entertaining if not entirely satisfying thriller.