The Argyle Secrets (1948)

Directed by Cy Endfield; produced by Sam X Abarbanel and Alan H Posner

Reporter Harry Mitchell (William Gargan) is sent to the hospital bed of colleague Allen Pierce (George Anderson) to find out what he knows about a mysterious book, the Argyle Album. Mitchell doesn’t get the chance to learn much, as, during his visit, Pierce dies, seemingly from a scalpel wound. The questions raised by the death, and by the Argyle Album, send Mitchell on a deadly search for gangsters, extortionists and traitors.

The Argyle Secrets is in many ways a typical B-movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood, and B-movies, in turn, are rather akin to the independent feature of today. Varying widely in quality, they have low budgets and largely unknown casts. One of the differences between yesterday’s B-movies and today’s independents is that the former’s plots were normally unimaginative and derivative. This characterises The Argyle Secrets.

William Gargan was a good actor – nominated for an Academy Award in another movie – who does what he can here. He is suitably tough and intelligent, conveying the impression of a man determined to be courageous, even when he doesn’t want to be. (Though his credibility may have been hurt in my personal estimation by resembling too much Sidney James, of the Carry On… series of farces.)

The other actors are capable, but no more so. Marjorie Lord is convincing as the obligatory femme fatale. The most recognizable minor player is, perhaps, Barbara Billingsley, later to portray June Cleaver in tv’s Leave It to Beaver, though Hogan’s Heroes’s John Banner portrays a villain.

The characters in the cast are interesting to different degrees, and are the best aspect of the film. They are not developed enough, however, and appear a bit too self-consciously based on other movies’ characters, especially Jack Reitzen as a Sydney Greenstreet-type personality. And one named Winter has a Mittel-European accent that is at odds with his attempt to hide his Nazi connections.

The story is a fairly standard one of the protagonist searching for an object, with the police on the trail of both the object and the protagonist, while villains of various shades try to outwit or kill both parties. Alfred Hitchcock popularised the term ‘MacGuffin’ for such  objects in such films; it didn’t matter what it was, so long as it provided an excuse for mystery and action. Probably the most famous movie MacGuffin is the title statue in The Maltese Falcon.

In The Argyle Secrets, the object of everyone’s desire is a book containing the names of American Nazi-collaborators. Mitchell doesn’t know at first why it is important, and his rivals have several reasons for wanting it. The album in question illustrates some of the lackluster interest the writer seemed to have had in the actual story. The album’s name suggests a Scottish origin; the double-headed eagle on its cover implies Imperial Russian or Austro-Hungarian connections; yet it involves Germans and Americans.

The story is both lazy and shoddy. Mitchell learns of the album’s secrets too soon and too easily. Instead of uncovering them, he is simply told of them. The book’s pages contain numerous names, but only two other parties are searching for it. Why two? One is mentioned in the book and so wants to avoid condemnation for his past crimes; the other is intent on using the book for blackmail. The choice of villains and motives seems arbitrary.

Pierce, who brings the secrets to Mitchell’s attention, is murdered, and his murderers spend the movie seeking what the man they killed could possibly have been tricked or coerced into revealing. And, though Gargan effectively portrays Mitchell as a clever man who pieces together the puzzle over time, the conclusions to which he comes are not really supported by the clues given.

The Argyle Secrets is an adequate time-filler, though there are numerous other B-movies that do better with the same or less. What I thought of most after the film was over was that its director (who also wrote the screenplay) was also behind the camera for the 1964 war-blockbuster Zulu!

The Artist (2011)

Directed by Michel Hazanavicius; produced by Thomas Langmann

At the top of his profession, silent-film star George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) loves his work. He enjoys making movies, he enjoys the adulation, he enjoys his life. But as the 1920s draw to a close, two things arrive to disrupt that most satisfactory existence: bright and ambitious young actress Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), and talkies.

There isn’t much wrong with this superb motion picture. It is a (mostly) silent film about the coming of sound to Hollywood. It may be seen as a companion-piece to Singin’ in the Rain: an examination of the time period from the other side. While both films might be considered light-hearted, they are also heart-felt. Despite being filmed in black-and-white and almost without sound (except for music), it is not a satire of silent-films, but a valentine to them, a demonstration of just how well they worked.

The plot is a melodrama straight out of the Silent Era, though its likes have been carried forward to the present day, even to the third remake of A Star is Born. Superficially (both in appearance and career-progression), Valentin resembles real-life actor John Gilbert, while his movies are more reminiscent of Douglas Fairbanks’s. That The Artist is a melodrama should be seen as in no way a detriment, as the story is sincere and well-crafted.

There are, throughout the movie, parallel but closely connected storylines, Valentin’s career crumbling and Miller’s building. Yet alongside these events, the two characters maintain an interest in each other, supporting each other if only from afar.

The actors are excellent. The two leads have a winning chemistry, perhaps formed in an earlier film – OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies – also directed by Hazanavicius. Both players have an almost immediate charm, which allows you to like their characters and support them, without being blind to their flaws. The players must, necessarily, be able to act with the slightest of expressions, and this they do, Dujardin especially. There is a brilliant little sequence when performance and direction combine to open a window into Peppy’s mind and heart as Bejo acts opposite a tail-coat.

The leads are backed up by a number of fine if subdued performances. John Goodman plays the head of the fictional Kinograph Motion Pictures (a man who would probably like to be a ruthless cinema mogul but isn’t enough of a jerk); Penelope Ann Miller has a thankless role as Valentin’s wife; James Cromwell is his devoted chauffeur; Ed Lauter as a butler, and Malcolm McDowell in a tiny (dare I say it?) non-speaking part as an extra awaiting an audition. And I can’t forget Uggy, as Valentin’s beloved dog.

While the likeability of the stars influences their characters, they, in turn, influence the audience. Valentin undoubtedly has an ego – he has a life-size portrait of himself (with his dog) in the hall of his house – but he is also cheerful and friendly, with a nice word and a joke even for the stage-hands at the studio, and despite temptations, he remains faithful to his wife, though their marriage is moribund.

Also, Valentin’s love for his craft is apparent (hence the movie’s title). At the premiere of his latest film, he is shown watching the movie from behind the screen: on his face is the quiet happiness felt by everyone who has accomplished something both enjoyable and good.

Whether intended or not, Valentin and Peppy Miller are very similar. Miller’s rise in Hollywood during Valentin’s descent feeds both her ego and clear desire for attention, yet she is quick to regret any slight she might inadvertently make.

And lastly, the direction, which is faultless. Whether Hazanavicius (who also wrote the screenplay) could pull off another such complete and involving movie I cannot determine, but his touch here is deft. The manner of direction is a studied tribute to that of the Silent Era. Like films from that time, dialogue cards are used but, again like the Silent Era, they are not, in fact, necessary. As Norma Desmond says in Sunset Boulevard, “We didn’t need dialogue. We had faces.” There are scenes in which Peppy watches Valentin from a distance (and thus effectively without sound), yet is overcome by emotion; another tribute to what made silent movies work.

The Artist can be treated as a movie made just after the advent of sound, looking back at recent events. Sound is utilized but only at imaginative and strategic moments, particularly at the end, when it reveals something about Valentin that might – or might not – have influenced his attitude toward talkies.

The Artist will remain one of my favourite movies, and, if it doesn’t ignite viewers’ interest in silent-films, will surely make them want to see this one again.

Devotion (1946)

Directed by Curtis Bernhardt; produced by Robert Buckner

In the first half of the nineteenth century, in a village on the Yorkshire Moors, the three Brontë sisters live with their clergyman father (Montagu Love), aunt (Ethel Griffies) and brother. Charlotte (Olivia de Havilland), Emily (Ida Lupino) and Anne (Nancy Coleman) dream of being not just writers, but successful authors, while their brother, Branwell (Arthur Kennedy), has ambitions of becoming a lionised painter. Their sometimes tumultuous family and romantic relationships, and their passionate personalities, both fuel and hamper their destinies.

The Hollywood biographical movie, or ‘bio-pic’, has a chequered history. It can be rousing and entertaining, provide excellent opportunities for actors, and the chance for studios to produce what they see as ‘serious cinema’. Usually, however, the genre generates a film that is simplistic and inaccurate. Such is the case with Devotion.

The first half of the film I thought more like Little Women than a real attempt to re-create the Brontë family dynamics, with Charlotte as Jo, though rather less sympathetic; their father taking over from Marmee, and Branwell as a loutish Laurie. This is, of course, unfair to both the subject and to Little Women, but conveys the superficial approach of the story.

The script is better than the story at large, with good lines, especially as spoken by Branwell. Yet, though it follows, in general, the lives of the Brontës, it fleshes out the situation little more than it does their characters.

Charlotte is shown as a rather obtuse young woman, wrapped up almost entirely in herself, and whose insensitivity borders on arrogance. Emily is a loner, content with her moors and circumscribed world. Branwell offers nothing likeable; he is bitter – perhaps at the realisation that he doesn’t have much talent – who lurches between self-advertisement and self-loathing like the sot he is. Anne comes across as a cipher. Nor is there much learned about their father. Arthur Nicholls (Paul Henreid), the love-interest for both Charlotte and Emily, is said to have been educated abroad, perhaps to explain Henreid’s accent. Nicholls was educated in Ireland, which would not have been considered ‘abroad’ in the England of the 1840s. Other than this, though he has the most complex character, it is shown, rather than explored.

Much is made later in the film of Emily’s secret heart-ache that allowed her to write Wuthering Heights, implying that such experience is required for successful writing. (The ‘write about what you know’ school is not one with which I’ve ever agreed; if this policy were followed, genres such as historical fiction would not exist, nor would most mysteries or adventure stories.) Charlotte’s time in Belgium is suggested as paralleling Jane Eyre’s at Thornfield. But nothing is mentioned of what brought The Tenant of Wildfell Hall to life in Anne’s imagination. The examination of the Brontës’ talent is not deep.

The cast comprises talented performers, most of whom are miscast. De Havilland does well as Charlotte, but Lupino is all wrong as a lonely young Englishwoman from Yorkshire. Henreid is adequate as Nicholls but the character seems too modern; (this is made tangible in the movie’s poster, in which the actors are shown in 1940s attire). The best performance is given by Kennedy, but, ironically, he too is miscast. He could fill the sour-young-man rôle in his sleep, though, like Lupino, he is as convincing a product of an early Victorian rural vicarage as Colin Farrell was as an ancient Macedonian king in Alexander the Great (2004).

A bright spot in the casting is Sydney Greenstreet, as William Thackeray. But then, that man could have made a lump of stone seem witty and entertaining. Victor Francen (oddly, for movies of this era, a Belgian actor playing a Belgian character) provides some devilment as a school headmaster.

I know very little about the Brontës, aside from their works of fiction, and I feel that, after watching Devotion, I know no more. It’s not that the film doesn’t offer something about the family, however shallow, but that what it gives carries a synthetic and ungenuine feel. Even if true, the movie made it all seem unlikely.

They Won't Believe Me (1947)

Directed by Irving Pichel; produced by Joan Harrison

Larry Ballentine (Robert Young) is on trial for murder. Taking the stand in his own defence, he relates the events that led to his current situation. As he describes the past few months, he also paints pictures of those involved in the crimes that have occurred: his wife, Greta (Rita Johnson), his past girlfriend, Janice (Jane Greer), and his more recent mistress, Verna (Susan Hayward). But he also reveals himself - and reveals himself to himself. By doing so, is Larry showing his innocence or his guilt?

They Won’t Believe Me, despite the unpromising title, is a well-made thriller that depends greatly on its writing and acting. No one involved lets the audience down. The centrepiece of the cast is Young; he usually plays a decent, moral man; certainly, later generations know him as the good parent of the tv series Father Knows Best, and the caring doctor in Marcus Welby, M.D. Here, his character is more ambivalent.

Truly, Larry Ballentine is not a bad guy. He has, however, a wandering eye, and a desire for his own pleasure. He is undoubtedly selfish. He knows he is, and has morality enough to feel bad about hurting others. Yet he is self-centred enough to contemplate murder. This is not a black-and-white character, but one closer to many real people than they might care to admit.

Nonetheless, due to Young’s performance, we sympathise with Larry. He is not the cold criminal at the heart of many films noir. He wants to be happy, and is willing to sacrifice others’ contentment for that goal - but does he have the personality to take that quality to extremes? And if he does, will the decent parts of his character allow him to live with his actions? This human dilemma is convincingly portrayed by Young.

If the writing is good enough to persuade us to give a serial philanderer a chance, then it is not surprising that it creates three dimensional characters for the women in his life. Johnson’s Greta is cool and realistic about her husband’s affairs. She, like Larry, knows what she wants but, in contrast to him, is unwavering and calculated in how she obtains and keeps it. But there is something vulnerable in her, and Johnson brings that out in a sad, not quite resentful way.

Greer has the least to work with but even her part is a good one, while Hayward has a role to get her teeth into. In some ways, Verna is not a great deal different than Greta, though what she wants is more tangible, and less constrained by formalities and convention. And like Greta - and Larry and Janice - she has more occurring under the surface than she lets on.

The movie’s direction is good, with some tense scenes, but the writing is what really backs up the acting. The script is better than the story, but the latter is nonetheless interesting, involving realistic people in the confusion that is often caused by emotions. They Won’t Believe Me’s producer was long-time Hitchcock collaborator Joan Harrison. As she was also a writer (eg. the films Foreign Correspondent, Rebecca), it would not surprise me to learn that she had a hand in the screenplay of this movie.

It’s rare for a film of the 1940s to portray an adulterer sympathetically; more often, a character who is a thief, a drunkard, a killer, will be shown to be less villainous. They Won’t Believe Me is an adult film about adults; taking into account some contrivances, it is a realistic depiction of people whose desires create more havoc than they can control.

16 Blocks (2006)

Directed by Richard Donner; produced by Randall Emmett, Avi Lerner, Arnold Rifkin, John Thompson, Jim Van Wyck

Jack Mosley (Bruce Willis) is a low-level New York City police detective who’s lost whatever enthusiasm and ability he may have had in regard to his job. His colleagues recognize this, and he’s given such tasks as baby-sitting a crime scene, and escorting prisoners to court. This day, he must take witness Eddie Bunker (Mos Def) to a grand jury just sixteen blocks away. Within minutes, though, he realises that his task is not so mundane, as an attempt is made on his charge’s life, and Mosley finds that even his best friends can’t be trusted. All he can rely on is a petty crook he’d just met, and twenty-five years of police experience he’s mostly forgotten.

From the start, we can dispose of the plot, which is not original, and serves mainly as a platform for the action. Some reviewers have compared 16 Blocks to The Gauntlet (1977), directed by Clint Eastwood. Though both movies feature an attempt by a burned-out but decent cop to deliver a witness against overwhelming odds, the events of the earlier film are almost absurd in their exaggeration, and The Gauntlet is probably best remembered for the prodigious use of ammunition by the police characters. Both movies feature a city bus the hero takes over, and this may contribute to the comparisons.

16 Blocks certainly has its share of contrivance, but is rather more realistic. The action is more down-to-earth, and the reasons for Mosley being considered a target for his colleagues more sensible.

The direction, by veteran Donner (Ladyhawke, Lethal Weapon) is a cut above average, providing plenty of excitement and thrills, but also some good, quieter moments, especially for the two main stars. There are, perhaps, too many scenes involving a trick in which the viewer is misled into thinking people are in one room when they are in another, but by and large Donner delivers effective work. There is also excellent use of New York City locations.

It is, however, the two leads who provide the best reasons for watching 16 Blocks. Willis, whom I don’t favour all that much as an actor, gives one of his best performances here. Noted for playing policemen, or some other type of character with a gun, he is also noted for his roles’ sarcastic lines and smirking delivery. There is none of that here.

Mosley is an alcoholic with a bad leg, fed up with his job and, more so, with himself. He is out of shape – his ‘spare tire’ isn’t typical of Willis’s characters – with any sense of humour he may have had buried by apathy and disdain. I can’t think of a single smart-alecky thing he says and, in fact, the most telling moments for Willis in the part are the silences. There is a good moment in a bar when Mosley realises that he is suddenly in an horrendous situation, and no matter what he does he will probably lose.

Def, known mostly as a hip-hop performer, does very well in 16 Blocks, even if he is hard to understand sometimes. A small-time criminal, his Bunker is a rather nice guy, too loquacious perhaps, whose ambition is to become a baker, specializing in birthday cakes. Willis and Def have a very workable chemistry in the film.

The other actors in 16 Blocks don’t have much to do except for David Morse - who plays Mosley’s former partner and chief opponent – and Jenna Stern (actress Samantha Eggar’s daughter), who portrays Mosley’s supportive sister.

An entertaining action flick, 16 Blocks wisely avoids extraneous sub-plots and concentrates on Willis, Def, gun-play and chases. It should satisfy most adventure fans while providing a modicum of depth that is not out of place.

Hondo (1953)

Directed by John Farrow; produced by Robert Fellows

Hondo Lane (John Wayne) trudges in to an isolated ranch having survived an Apache attack in the desert. He meets Angie Lowe (Geraldine Page), who is running the ranch with her little son (Lee Aaker) in the absence of her husband (Leo Gordon), and quickly establishes a rough rapport with her. Their mutual attraction is, however, subject to a number of factors, including hostile cowboys, patrolling soldiers and raiding Indians, whose leader (Micahel Pate) develops a proprietorial interest in Mrs Lowe’s seemingly fatherless boy.

Right away, one might note a similarity in at least the premise of Hondo to Shane, which was released in the same year. Given the star of the former movie, one might also rightly expect Hondo’s canvas to be broader than Shane’s, and its attitude to be less introspective. Both films are successful, however, though Hondo works almost exclusively because of Wayne.

Wayne’s character is one of his most interesting. Hondo is a very practical man; certainly not politically correct, he strikes the viewer as a fairly realistic interpretation of an individual raised on the frontier, where sentiment may exist but takes no part in decisions. For instance, Hondo explains how his dog, a semi-feral collie, was trained to “smell Apaches”; the process involved an Indian beating a puppy until it recognises its tormentor’s scent. This explanation horrifies Mrs Lowe, who inadvertently embodies the different attitudes of later times.

Hondo, while eminently practical, is also a romantic, describing how his late wife – an Apache girl – had a name the meaning of which cannot fully be comprehended in English, and comparing it to how a person feels while watching dawn arrive or sensing the first winter breezes off the mountains. These feelings are not entirely subjugated to the real world. Hondo’s unwavering devotion to honesty is, ironically, contested by Angie’s assertion that honesty is not always the best policy. These contrasting qualities between, and in, the two characters make them deeper than what one might initially suspect them to be.

In contrast to Wayne, who, though he won an Oscar (for his part in True Grit (1969)), is not noted for his acting range (some might substitute ‘talent’ for the phrase), Geraldine Page’s performance in Hondo was thought highly enough to be nominated for an Academy Award. I cannot agree with the nomination. I think her acting here is unconvincing, and not up to Wayne’s. There is nothing that really stands out about it as bad, but almost all of her lines seem uttered in a high-schoolish fashion. Katherine Hepburn was the original choice for the role, and I can only think wistfully of what she might have made of it.

The story is not complex, but it does involve more than a few events, one leading fluidly into the next. It is based on a Louis L’Amour short story, “The Gift of Cochise”. Some reviewers have written that the movie is the most faithful adaptation of a L’Amour work; I believe the short story was greatly expanded with much original – or at least, new – material. L’Amour later wrote a novelisation of the movie, based on its script. This may be from what some people think the film was derived (rather than vice versa), in which case there is no wonder that it runs so closely to the movie.

The depiction of Indians in Hondo is unsentimental. Like the title character, they are products of a hard environment and cannot afford sentiment dictating their actions. They are villains by circumstance. They attack settlers, and therefore they must be fought. But as Hondo himself states, whites broke the treaty that had been made with the Apaches. At one point, Vittorio, the Apache leader, states that his sons are all dead; since he himself is hardly middle-aged, it seems likely they were killed young, perhaps as children, by whites.

Hondo has great sympathy for the Apaches and their way of life; he lived among them. His dog’s ability to smell them is hardly racist: Hondo demonstrates how he himself can smell Angie Lowe, thanks to her baking and washing. (American long-range reconnaissance team-members in Indochina would sometimes eat indigenous food and refrain from  washing before patrolling, so their American scent wouldn’t give them away.) Though individuals might be heroic or villainous, the whites and the Indians in Hondo are shown neutrally, simply as people who want to get by, their cultures and their respective need for land making conflict inevitable.

While the story does not contribute to the most exciting feature of Wayne’s career, it does furnish an entertaining film, with some exciting action scenes, and his character provides interest. Together, they make Hondo a superior entry in the western genre.