Night Train (a.k.a. Pociąg; 1959)

Directed by Jerzy Kawalerowicz; no producer credited

Jerzy (Leon Niemczyk) hurriedly boards an over-night train to the seaside. He appears desperate to get away from town, and buys both berths in his compartment in order to be alone. But already in the compartment is a young woman, Marta (Lucyna Winnicka), who was sold her ticket second-hand and, equally determined to get away, refuses to move. These are two of the several people on the crowded express, some bound for holidays, some searching for someone, and one individual flying from a murder, recently committed.

A quietly fascinating movie, Night Train builds interest for the viewer slowly. Its characters start off, almost all of them, aloof and rather annoying. As one comes to know them, however, sympathy is gained, and understanding is reached, and by the film’s conclusion one wants the best for all of them, even if some don’t deserve it.

Though often included in lists of film noir, Night Train is not in that genre. Nor should it be considered a psychological thriller, though it both thrills and is psychological. It is more of a character study of people, but in the context of growing tension and enlarging emotion. It is a drama, with touches of crime, romance and suspense.

The characters are intriguing. Jerzy is clearly hiding something, perhaps fleeing something, while Marta is, ironically, both running from a confrontation and racing toward one, hoping to find resolution for each. Other characters are Marta’s jilted lover (Zbigniew Cybulski); the greatly dissatisfied wife (Teresa Szmigielówna) of a lawyer; a concentration camp survivor (Zygmunt Zintel) suffering from insomnia; the carriage’s stewardess (Helena Dąbrowska); a know-it-all (Ignacy Machowski) who converses about a notorious homicide. Some seem silly or violent or boring; yet by the end the viewer sees that each has a sensitivity, a quality that mitigates their flaws.

The director / co-writer hit upon the idea of using a train as a separate world, cut off from the rest of life, its passengers a tiny community, forced to live together. This is not a new premise, but Kawalerowicz imbues it with an existential aspect. This is elaborated upon in the final scene, showing the train, emptied of its passengers and crew, resembling a ruin from the ancient past, with biscuit-wrappers and paper bags as relics for archaeologists to discover. Like the body, when the soul is gone, the train is a shell, and awaits reincarnation with new passengers.

The original Polish title of the film, Pociąg, which means simply ‘Train’, suggests a more general notion: that of being alone, temporarily part of a group, and then alone again. Almost all of the relationships are driven by a longing for companionship or love, however fleeting it may be. Yet, as Marta believes, everyone wants to be loved, but no one wants to love. There is anxiety even in finding someone.

Night Train also may be taken as a window on a communist country in the middle of the Cold War. There is less control than Westerners might think, yet the police are still to be obeyed without question. The train is very crowded, many passengers standing all night in filled corridors. Most people are pleased to be going on holiday. The movie is a social study in the best way, showing a mode of life incidentally.

Considered one of the best Polish movies, Night Train may be taken a number of ways. Some viewers might find it boring, but it conveys a truth that may be discovered in both life and in cinema: life is in the journey, not at the destination.

A Hill in Korea (a.k.a. Hell in Korea; 1956)

Directed by Julian Ames; produced by Anthony Squire

A small, detached unit of British soldiers is sent to reconnoitre a village during the Korean War. Most of the men, as well as the lieutenant in command, are National Servicemen, putting in their time as conscripts. When they find themselves cut off by Chinese units, it will take all the intelligence of the commander, the experience of his sergeant and the tenacity of his men to reach their own lines again.

The only remarkable aspect of A Hill in Korea is the number of actors in it who would achieve bigger things - some very big indeed - in their careers. The most famous of these are Michael Caine and Robert Shaw, who have small but prominent roles.

Stanley Baker (who would re-unite with Caine in 1964’s Zulu) was on the verge of stardom, as was Stephen Boyd, while George Baker, who is less known these days, plays the lieutenant. Also in the cast is tough Harry Andrews, and character actors Michael Medwin and Victor Maddern. Of note is Ronald Lewis as a disaffected private; Lewis had the makings of a star before his decline due to drinking.

All of this on-screen talent does not, however, translate to a superior movie. A Hill in Korea is certainly not bad. It has some good action scenes and decent dialogue, but nothing that really lifts it above the average.

The writing, for example, fills the unit with the usual diverse characters, and while the actual talk is entertaining, it is spoken by men we have seen in a dozen other war movies. There is the clever fellow, the one who thinks he’s better than the rest, the old campaigners, the grumblers, etc. And despite its obvious intent to laud the National Serviceman, it doesn’t really portray him as different than the regulars. A much better film about conscripts in war is The Way Ahead (1944), though what each film wanted to accomplish was a great contrast to the other.

The story-line is fairly routine, as well, with the men holding off enemy attacks with varying degrees of stolidity, while engaging in typical army banter, and periodically getting on each other’s nerves. Most war movies fall into sub-genres, and this one is squarely in the ‘small unit action’ category. It is not different from others in the field.

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While a passable time-filler, A Hill in Korea, despite the rare setting - it is, I think, the first British movie to have been placed in the Korean War - is not special. Even recognizing the actors is probably a more profitable game for movie-buffs, than for the general audience.

The Tattooed Stranger (1949)

Directed by Edward Montagne; produced by Jay Bonafield

The discovery of a woman’s corpse in a New York park begins a police inquiry that leads investigators Corrigan and Tobin (Walter Kinsella, John Miles) into the mean streets and crumbling buildings of the city’s slums. They must discover not only who killed the woman and why, but who she is. All they seem to have to go on is a tattoo on the victim’s wrist.

The Tattooed Stranger is an interesting movie with a glaring flaw that, while puzzling, nonetheless doesn’t eliminate the entertainment value of the film. That flaw is the terrible continuity in the movie. To be more accurate, the terrible discontinuity. Aside from the visual faults - when the detectives enter a diner a man is seen eating a meal; when they leave, though no one else had arrived or departed, it is clearly a different man, eating ice cream - the writing ignores itself.

The victim is supposedly shot in the face with a shotgun. One policeman says grimly, “Shotgun? It looks more like a bazooka!” Yet a photograph of the dead woman, obviously taken at the morgue, shows her face completely undamaged. The photo cannot have been an editing problem, since it is used repeatedly to question witnesses about the woman’s identity. There is also the fact that the victim’s tattoo is mentioned by Corrigan before he and Tobin are told that she had one.

If one skips over the intimation at the beginning that the cause of death also disfigured the victim, the rest of the screenplay makes more sense. But even so, how can The Tattooed Stranger be recommended? The setting, direction and supporting players make this movie worth watching.

The movie makes excellent use of real-life New York of the day. It is shot on-location. In many movies, even as late as the 1950s, the slummy districts of a city would be artificial constructs on a sound-stage. Here, we see parts of Brooklyn and the Bronx that probably disappeared in urban renewal within a decade of The Tattooed Stranger’s release. Corrigan and Tobin visit clapboard terrace-houses and chase villains through hard-scrabble back gardens that I’ve not seen in movies previously. The tattoo-parlours of The Bowery are featured prominently.

Secondly, though the principal actors are adequate, it is the supporting players, the witnesses, the business-owners, who add to the authenticity suggested by the locations. Tattoo-shop managers, diner-owners, passers-by, all have the feel of people who lived in the ramshackle districts the police visit; it’s as if the casting director saw an interesting face in the crowd and offered $10 for a few lines. Yet these realistic bit-players are credible actors.

Added to this is the detail of the investigation. The writing, for all its mistakes, does a good job of combining the two elements of modern detective work: science and leg-work. Hours of telephoning restaurants and employment agencies, and miles of streets walked interviewing people are shown beside analyses of unusual grasses and studies of types of stone.

Lead actor John Miles made no more movies after The Tattooed Stranger. He had appeared in nineteen films in the previous six years, mostly in small, uncredited bit-parts. Ironically, his first starring role was in his last film. Why he quit movie-acting at only 27, and if he continued his profession elsewhere, i have not been able to discover. Jack Lord has a small part as a crime-analysis detective.

While The Tattooed Stranger has an inexplicable problem with its script, it does not prove fatal to the enjoyment of the film which, aside from being a pretty good police procedural, will also be of interest to film buffs and social historians. If you like all three elements, as I do, then this is a must-see movie.

Locke (2013)

Directed by Steven Knight; produced by Paul Webster, Guy Heeley

Ivan Locke (Tom Hardy) is driving from Birmingham to London, abandoning the preparations he is meant to oversee for the biggest non-military, non-nuclear concrete pour in European history, so that he can be present at the birth of his child. The child’s mother, however, Bethan, is not Locke’s wife, but a relative stranger with whom Locke had a one-night stand. Nonetheless, Locke is determined not to desert the child, as his hated late father did to him. Though it may cost him his job, his marriage and everything he values, he wants to do the right thing by his new child.

An intriguing and risky premise that pays off due in large part to the bravura performance of Hardy, Locke is filmed almost entirely in the character’s car. Except for a few faceless extras at the beginning, he is the only person shown through the movie’s 85 minutes, the other characters being those on the other end of some of the three dozen telephone calls of which Locke is a part. The rest of the credit goes to the writer/director.

One would not think that much drama could come from telephone discussions but, when one thinks of it, most drama in life appears to stem from what people say, or don’t say. There are no explosions, shoot-outs, or car chases in most people’s lives, yet they are often filled with drama, nonetheless, whether they want it or not. This is the sort of tension that is created in Locke.

Suspense is made by the unfolding situations, and by Locke’s reactions to them. He is both cause and effect. More than a construction foreman, his passion is concrete, and such is his dedication to his job that he continues to supervise the preparations for the pour remotely, arguing with and cajoling his deputy - who is clearly out of his depth - into doing what is necessary, even though he, Locke, has already been fired by his boss, with whom he also maintains reluctant contact through the drive. In the meantime, he has to tell his wife, Katrina, why he is not coming home to watch a football game with his two sons. Lastly, and most importantly, he is in continual touch with Bethan, the woman who is having his child.

There is also great interest created by Hardy’s interpretation of Locke. Nothing is explained all at once. We find out about Locke as the evening progresses. He turns out to be a dedicated man, dedicated to everything in his life, yet willing to sacrifice much so that he will not repeat the mistakes of his father - whom he imagines in the car with him from time to time. Several characters tell Locke that he is not himself, that he’s behaving strangely; yet we begin to see that he is, in fact, behaving perfectly in character; he’s just not had such a demand made on him before. He is also an uncompromising man in some ways, yet also sensitive, someone who knows the tragedy of what he is doing.

There are some aspects that viewers may find a bit contrived. For instance, would a man confess to infidelity to his wife over the telephone? Yet, because of who and what we find Locke to be, we can believe it of him, such is his need to be truthful on this night. Another example of the latter is his insistence while talking to Bethan’s doctor that he, Locke, is the father of the baby, and not Bethan’s partner. And it must be remembered that all events are happening because of what Locke has done, so, though some elements may be contrived, they were deliberately set in motion by the character himself.

The contributions of the voice-actors (most of whom are ‘face-actors’ in their careers) should not be under-estimated. They include Ruth Wilson, Olivia Colman and Tom Holland, and have a difficult job, as all of their actions, reactions and emotions are related by sound. Hardy is aided by his expressions, both facial and bodily.

For the viewer who finds his drama in the human condition, Locke is a rewarding hour and a half, and a film - unlike most - that benefits greatly from being seen on the small screen.

The House Across the Lake (a.k.a. Heat Wave; 1954)

Directed by Ken Hughes; produced by Anthony Hinds

Mark Kendrick (Alex Nicol) is a successful author whose success has run out. Stuck in a bungalow on Lake Windermere, trying and failing to write a novel that has already been promised to a publisher, Kendrick is invited to a party hosted by Carol Forrest (Hillary Brooke) at her house on the other side of the lake. Kendrick quickly falls victim to Carol’s charms, despite becoming friends with her husband, Beverly (Sydney James). But Carol has plans that don’t involve Beverly, and Kendrick isn’t sure they involve him, either.

A lukewarm illicit-romance blends with an equally lukewarm crime story to make The House Across the Lake merely mediocre. Some reviews have stated that the film wants to be Double Indemnity, or The Postman Always Rings Twice. While I don’t believe it was trying to be even reminiscent of those better movies, The House Across the Lake nonetheless offers nothing new to the genre.

One of the problems is that Carol is meant to be the sort of woman who captures a man immediately and absolutely. The implication is made that obsession with her is a popular pastime among men. While obsession, like love or hate or any emotion, is subjective, and thus one person cannot always understands what drives another, movies put themselves in difficult positions with such premises. The audience needs to feel or see something of what motivates the subject of the obsession. It has to be credible.

Partly, it’s the writing’s fault. Nothing Carol does is particularly attractive, and much of what she does is repulsive. There is a scene in which Kendrick, narrating the story in flashback, states that he eventually saw a side of the woman at which he had not guessed. The viewer sees a little of it, but there is nothing there that would appeal to anyone. On the other hand, Hillary Brooke does not have the presence or talent to bring such appeal to the screen. She is adequately attractive physically, but not unique. There is no indefinable element that other actresses have given similar roles.

Nicol, for his part, plays Kendrick rather blandly. His personality is the sort that is useful, rather than exciting, and the movie does not adequately convey his writing talent or former success. He comes across as an advertising executive or a chummy salesman, rather than a writer. In fact, making Kendrick a writer with writer’s block is almost pointless. It would have been better, I think, to have allowed his relationship with Carol to impel him to better, more passionate writing, and thus provide a psychological reason why he could not stop seeing her.

The other actors are good, though James may be considered slightly miscast. His working class speech doesn’t fit with the upper class name his character bears. (Beverly, like Vivian and Evelyn, were originally men’s names, given as tributes to people with those surnames, which in turn ultimately derive from places.)  Alan Wheatley, an accomplished stage and radio actor, and who would become reasonably famous as the sheriff of Nottingham in tv’s The Adventures of Robin Hood the year following The House Across the Lake, does very well as a detective inspector.

The location filming helps a little, but isn’t used enough. There is no particular reason why the movie needed to be set in the Lake District. The direction is good but Hughes would do better. In short, The House Across the Lake is ordinary fare that doesn’t offer what many similar but superior movies do.

Robot & Frank (2012)

Directed by Jake Schreier; produced by Lance Acord, Sam Bisbee, Jackie Kelman-Bisbee, Galt Niederhoffer

In the near future, Frank Weld (Frank Langella) is a former convict, a retired cat-burglar, who is suffering from increasing dementia. His son Hunter (James Marsden) buys a therapy robot (voice of Peter Sarsgaard) to help him, especially in housekeeping and memory-enhancing exercises. At first resentful of the robot, Frank’s attitude changes when he realises his new companion has no moral guide, and thus can break the law, if it helps Frank. The latter therefore renews his criminal activities, this time with the robot’s help, even as his memory continues to diminish.

Labelled as a science fiction comedy-drama, Robot & Frank’s connection to science fiction is tenuous. The only element of the movie that could be so called is the inclusion of the robot. But this is not a fault. Rather, the science fictional aspect of the film is - whether this was the intention of its makers or not - a means of discussing through a story the themes of memory and friendship.

Initially, the two qualities are treated separately. As Frank’s memory disintegrates, the robot’s is retained, in a way, for Frank. The story questions, albeit gently, what part memory plays in making us. Are we the same person without our memories? Interestingly, what occurs to the robot shows how vital recollections are, and how they determine the personality of the remembrancer. Later, memory is hinted as being significant to friendship; recollections of shared activities, remembered facts about someone: these constitute something important in friendship. When the memories are lost, something of the relationship is lost, as well. The movie’s final image of Frank suggests this strongly.

Though several other actors, including Susan Sarandon, figure prominently, it is Langella who is at the centre of the film. Though a leading man in the early part of his movie career, he has excelled in supporting roles (though, as is often the case with actors, he has found greater scope on stage). Nonetheless, he still has the talent to headline a movie. Sarsgaard’s performance should also be noted. Though the robot has no face, and no emotion in his voice, the actor manages to convey meaning and the vaguest touch of feeling in his words.

The direction is good, as is the writing, though neither particularly complements the acting. The script includes one particularly obnoxious character (Jeremy Strong), who fills the role of villain, though a villain isn’t really needed. The story may, in truth, have been better without the conflict that he creates. And there is a revelation near the end which is unnecessary.

The aim of the movie may have been, at least originally, to look at how technology is affecting people, or will affect them - the local library in Robot & Frank is being shut down because no one reads books anymore. But right from the start, it appears that technology - as technology - is unimportant. The robot could have been an alien creature, a foreigner unused to North American ways, a time-traveller, or someone otherwise new to society. The results would likely have been the same. And the results are quite good.

Science fiction has often been used as a vehicle for studying humanity, ironically especially when presenting non-humans as a foil or counter. Yet in Robot & Frank, the non-human becomes a subject of study as much as the human, and the two combine to create an entertaining and melancholy treatise on memory and relationships.