Citizen X (1995)

Directed by Chris Gerolmo; produced by Timothy Marx

In the mid-1980s, two police officers, Lieutenant Viktor Burakov (Stephen Rea) and Colonel Mikhail Fetisov (Donald Sutherland), in the southern Russian city of Rostov, realise that they had a serial killer murdering people, most of them young. As evidence builds of the extent of the crime spree, the pair face increasing obstacles trying to end the killing and bring the man responsible to justice.

Citizen X is an interesting and, in some ways, a fascinating movie, more than it is an excellent movie, It certainly has quality, particularly in the performances of Sutherland and Max von Sydow, but other aspects of the actual film-making are ordinary. The director, who also adapted the book (The Killer Department) about the subject, wrote Mississippi Burning. Gerolmo is, perhaps, a better writer than director, though he doesn’t stand out in either field in Citizen X.

The story itself is the main attraction, I think, depicting, with some fictionalisation, the hunt for Andrei Chikatilo (Jeffrey DeMunn), the first acknowledged serial killer in the Soviet Union. The progress the movie follows is less police procedural than political drama: the hurdles that the police must overcome are principally those of bureaucracy and entrenched ideology.

There was no precedent in the Soviet Union for an investigation such as that which Burakov begins; the very notion that there might be a serial killer in the country is dismissed by local Communist Party chiefs: such a phenomenon occurs only in capitalist nations. To admit to such a creature existing in the USSR is to admit something is wrong with the country and its system. Burakov stumbles along in his work, driven more by passion than expertise; he has no model to follow, no textbook. This takes an immense emotional toll on him.

Part of the problem is shown to be the politics involved in every aspect of a totalitarian state. This is epitomised by Fetisov, whom Sutherland makes the most interesting character in the film. At first, he is a cynical, sardonic man, more a smooth dealer and broker of favours than a policeman; he’s spent his adult life negotiating the best bargains he can get from friends, rivals and superiors, and is amused, more than anything else, by Burakov’s earnestness. Gradually, he begins to take a real interest in the investigation, and his method of championing Burakov may not be to the latter’s liking, but is effective. Fetisov’s change, as he re-orients his way of working, without altering them all together, is intriguing.

As dedicated as everyone on the detective team becomes, it is the changes wrought by glasnost that influence the case the most. The abruptness of these changes comes almost over-night in the movie and, while this may not reflect events in real life, it may: life in the Soviet Union, where little was what it seemed or was claimed, and much hidden, was, in some ways, quite close to life in George Orwell’s Oceania.

While the writing and direction is adequate, and the cast most capable (it includes veterans such as Joss Ackland, Imelda Staunton, John Wood, and Max von Sydow as a psychiatrist who’s quietly excited to do his part), it is the setting - the time and place - that will hold the interest of anyone watching Citizen X.

Touchez pas au grisbi (1954)

Directed by Jacques Becker; produced by Robert Dorfman

Max (Jean Gabin) isn’t as young as he used to be. In fact, it’s time he retired from his business. His business? Crime. And it pays. He has 50,000,000 francs in gold bars hidden away. He intends to turn it into cash, split it with his long-time partner Riton (Rene Dary), and live quietly and well. But Riton talks too much to his girlfriend, Josy (Jean Moreau), and she talks too much to her man on the side, Angelo (Lino Ventura). Now, too many people know about Max’s gold, and he could lose his retirement fund - and maybe his life.

Touchez pas au grisbi was Jean Gabin’s return to the top tier of French cinema actors after his hiatus during the Second World War (in which he served with Free French combat forces) and his subsequent dozen or so unpopular mediocre films. After this, though, there was no looking back.

The appeal of Touchez pas au grisbi grows as one progresses through the film and, indeed, with further consideration after one’s viewing. Certainly, it is Gabin who anchors the movie. His is a strong presence, and, though not always on screen, is usually felt in every scene. His character is at an age at which he is old enough for retirement, but young enough still to enjoy it. Gabin shows Max to be bored with things that others seem to think would excite him - and may once have done - such as a night-club floor-show with beautiful women. Max has settled down to one girl now, and is content with the situation.

The other actors are also very good, whether long-time veterans such as Gabin and Dary (a former child-star), or newcomers like Moreau. Ventura, the erstwhile competitive wrestler and school drop-out, is very good in this, his first acting job. His Angelo seems to have a younger version of Max’s cunning and ruthlessness, without the intelligence and sympathy.

The script makes Max’s age a convincing part of the film, with such lines as “These days, staying up past midnight is overtime”, and showing Max associating best with people his own age. The character is nicknamed Max le Menteur (“Max the Liar”), yet the term suggests ‘mentor’, which he is to younger characters. Gabin’s real-life part as a big name in French cinema of the 1930s, making a comeback in the ‘50s, appears to translate straight into the role.

The direction is interesting in that it incorporates a great deal of mundane detail without causing tedium. Some scenes show Max preparing for bed, or driving across Paris; these need not have been included but add something to the notion that he is now a more ordinary man in his tastes than he once had been. Yet, he is also the tough guy of his youth, and the climax is an exciting show-down between criminals, when slightly podgy and bespectacled men demonstrate that their vigour and violence has not entirely disappeared, and that youth should not take them for granted.

A good, solid, evocative crime-movie, Touchez pas au grisbi is a fitting introduction both to Gabin’s later work and to French films of the genre, as well as being simply an entertaining yarn.

Ride Clear of Diablo (1954)

Directed by Jesse Hibbs; produced by John W Rogers

After learning that his father and brother were murdered by cattle-rustlers, Clay O’Mara (Audie Murphy) returns to his home town of Santiago. There, the local sheriff (Paul Birch) and the O’Mara family lawyer (William Pullen) tell him that a lead on who killed his family might be found in the village of Diablo, where notorious gunman Whitey Kincade (Dan Duryea) lives. Questioning Kincade is a dangerous proposition, as others have found out previously, but this time, the criminal may have found his match.

A pretty standard western from the last big decade of the genre, Ride Clear of Diablo has good acting to make up for the inadequacies of its writing and direction. The latter is in the hands of someone whose biggest success is probably another Audie Murphy movie, about the latter’s war experiences: To Hell and Back. In fact, Murphy must have liked Hibbs, as they collaborated on a number of features. Thereafter, Hibbs went into television, directing westerns in that medium. In Ride Clear of Diablo, his work is unremarkable.

The writing is rather lazy. The opening scene features two ranch-hands being delayed at a saloon so that rustlers can ride to the O’Mara Ranch and make off with the cattle. Later, Clay wants to learn more about the circumstances of his family’s murder, but doesn’t ask about the ranch-hands, though he must have known they were employed and where they were at the time of the crime.

As well, the denouement doesn’t mention a major character’s contribution to the story’s climax, despite his relation to another character. Several of the scenes might easily be deleted, for all the references made to them in other scenes.

The criminals involved appear to have a number of schemes in hand, each of which must surely be enough to keep their hands full. First, they steal a herd of cattle, certainly large enough to be difficult to hide. Mention is not made of where the animals might be driven to or hidden. Either they were disposed of remarkably fast - and fencing branded cattle in the Old West couldn’t have been an easy proposition - or they were secreted somewhere and, apparently, forgotten. Then, the crooks plan to rob a silver shipment being transported to their town, just a few days after the cattle robbery. That loot can’t be simply hidden or disposed of, either. The script seems sloppy.

The saving grace of Ride Clear of Diablo is the performance of Dan Duryea, and his character’s relationship with Murphy’s. Though Kincade’s laughter begins to grate after a while, his unrepentant villain is interesting. He appears genuinely to find Clay’s audacity and naïvté appealing, like that of a younger brother, while Clay, at first repulsed by the other’s amorality, begins to be amused by his views and antics. While Kincade’s sentimental attitude grows slowly, it is accompanied by a stronger desire to be entertained, as when - just to see what would happen - he reveals to a villain (Russell Johnson) that Clay is sneaking up on him. The two principal actors have good chemistry together, and their skills overcome the slack script.

With a bland story, ordinary dialogue and lacklustre direction, Ride Clear of Diablo is salvaged only by Murphy and Duryea, the latter giving another performance that stands out from its setting.

That Christmas (2024)

Directed by Simon Otto; produced by Nicole P Hearon and Adam Tandy

Santa Claus has one more stop to make on Christmas Eve. The little town of Wellington-on-Sea is by and large a happy community, but some of its residents are having problems. Young Danny Williams is infatuated with the girl down the street, Sam, while Sam’s twin sister, Charlie, can’t refrain from being naughty. Bernadette is strong and confident - when things are going well - and teacher Ms Trapper is trying hard to cover her loneliness with authority. Santa knows the best gift he can deliver is happiness, and he has a big job this Christmas Eve in Wellington-on-Sea.

This fun and entertaining animated feature is written by Richard Curtis, who adapted three of his illustrated children’s books. Curtis is more famous for adult work - such as Love Actually and Four Weddings and a Funeral - movies that reflect a concern with relationships. He carries this concern into That Christmas, and does a good job with it.

The characters are three-dimensional; those of the children are well-defined very quickly, usually in their first actions or words - as is often the case with real children. The adults are given more time to show their personalities. In most cases, they are realistic, though a few are pure comic relief, no great crime in a comedy.

The script contains no memorable lines, but is workmanlike and serviceable. The story is better. It fools the viewer about two thirds of the way through into thinking that it is over, which would have provided a pleasant but anaemic ending; it carries on to a more satisfying conclusion. It has elements that stand out, such as the fact that everyone in town seems to assume the reality of Santa Claus.

There is also a particular Englishness to it: included are a reference to Boxing Day, and a photo album featuring pictures of a young Royal Marines officer, significant for its date of 1981. On the other hand, some of the children’s dialogue might be lost initially, until one grows used to the accents.

In animated features, it is sometimes difficult to separate credit for direction from that for animation. This is specially the case here, as the movie is Otto’s first feature film as a director, though he was heavily involved in the animation for How To Train Your Dragon and Kung Fu Panda. The artistry here veers, as it frequently does in animation, from realistic to caricature, the latter used for the lesser or comical characters. The expressions and gestures of the children are particularly well-drawn, while the climactic blizzard makes one feel one is inside a snowstorm.

There are a few aspects that could have been bettered. The male parents are given the unfortunately usual treatment of being either ridiculous or uncaring: Danny’s father, for instance, is unreliable, presumably because he is pre-occupied with the 25 year old for whom he abandoned Danny’s mother. And why animated movies need to hire ‘names’ - presumably at high cost - who then make their voices unrecognisable, is beyond me. Brian Cox and Bill Nighy are two of these. These bits are compensated by others, such as the children’s exasperation at having to watch ‘old Christmas movies’ - the one showing is Love Actually.

Overall That Christmas is a welcome addition to the ever growing catalogue of Yuletide films, though this one will likely appeal to adults and older children, rather than those of a single-digit age.

The Criminal (1960)

Directed by Joseph Losey; produced by Jack Greenwood

Johnny Bannion (Stanley Baker) is a career criminal being released from his latest prison sentence. He already has another caper in mind: robbing a race-track. Backed by a shadowy gangster (‘our friend in Highgate’), Bannion and his cronies successfully carry off the heist. That action proves to be easy compared to what follows: double-cross, murder and riot. It’s an open question whether Bannion will survive at all, never mind find the loot he has hidden.

A tough and violent film, The Criminal is part prison movie and part crime story. Usually, trying to combine disparate elements, even if they are related, comes across as awkward or disjointed. That’s not the case here, as the script and direction blends them smoothly as an author might the chapters of a novel. The film flows easily and, despite the twists and turns Bannion encounters, is not confusing.

Baker does an excellent job in the title rôle. It seems there was no tougher tough-guy in British cinema in the 1960s than Baker. Even when playing good guys, there was a simmering menace beneath the surface, though he could portray concern and compassion, as well, albeit in a rough, hard-edged manner. He is in his element here, though the character he creates is three-dimensional. (As a side-note, Baker, like many actors who portrayed hard, brutal or vicious people on screen, seemed to be just the opposite in real life.)

Bannion, however, highlights the principal problem with The Criminal. The viewer doesn’t really sympathise with the main character, or with any of the others, really. The robbery is not detailed enough to involve the audience – it is not, obviously, meant to be anything but a device to further the plot – and the convolutions that follow provide entertainment but not engagement. At no point does a viewer find himself hoping for a positive outcome for Bannion. One wonders what will happen next – will he get away with it? – but whether or not it matters probably does not occur to the audience. A contrast may be made with the story and Sterling Hayden’s character in The Asphalt Jungle.

Other actors do very well. Six of them – Patrick Magee, Nigel Green, Neil McCarthy, Larry Taylor, Tom Gerrard, Dickie Owen – worked with Baker in 1964’s Zulu. Tom Bell, Laurence Naismith and Sam Wanamaker are also in the cast, as is Roy Dotrice, in his cinematic debut. All are very capable in that seemingly effortless, workmanlike way that even minor actors have in British films of the time.

The Criminal’s depiction of prison life in 1960 Britain is interesting. The convicts wear uniforms (with ties!) that were almost identical to British Army battledress; a visitor to the prison remarks that Bannion ‘looks like a soldier’. They are allowed to play darts, yet are punished for possessing knives. At one point, prisoners are put to work at what appears to be picking oakum, though I suspect that would not have been done as late as 1960.

As entertaining as The Criminal is, however, it is not quite enjoyable. It doesn’t bring the audience in to the story, nor does it make it support the main character. The movie turns out to be much like Bannion; it is intriguing to spend time with, but won’t turn out to be anyone’s favourite. 

Playtime (1967)

Directed by Jacques Tati; produced by Bernard Maurice

Monsieur Hulot (Jacques Tati) has an appointment somewhere in the heavily urbanized suburbs of Paris. He initially misses the man he was to meet and, though he eventually runs into him, it is after he and a number of others have confusing and entertaining adventures in a highly modern, mechanized and impersonal world.

Twenty minutes into Playtime, I thought it a rather dull film the length of which would test my ability to remain awake. By the time it was over, I considered it brilliant, and wished it had lasted twice as long. It reminded me of a Chaplin film, and indeed, despite having dialogue, the movie could be silent (astonishingly, Art Buchwald is credited as supplying some of the simple and sparse English dialogue). The spoken words are muted, almost in the background, yet they serve a purpose, as discussed below. Also, in spite of being filmed in colour, Playtime is filled with the greys of concrete, the silver of steel and the pale blue of glass; this too is deliberate.

The character of Monsieur Hulot is barely a character. Like the Little Tramp, we learn nothing about him (other than that he was in the army; a running joke is the number of old army buddies he encounters); he is a device by which we are carried along in the movie. There is no principal character; even Hulot is a supporting player. He disappears from view for long periods; indeed, he is not seen until about twenty minutes into the movie (though someone at an airport is mistaken for him.) People come and go, to reappear later, or perform their function in the plot and vanish.

About the plot: there is none. Playtime is a series of vignettes, following a group of tourists from the airport to the city; then Hulot takes us into the towering office block of what we guess to be a huge corporation; then we meander into a trade fair, and at last to a restaurant - all with side-trips along the way. Each scene has something to show us.

And what Playtime shows us is Tati’s gentle dissatisfaction with the modern Paris, and how it was losing its ‘Paris-ness’, even in 1967. All the buildings are international in design, without distinction. In fact, the opening scene I initially thought to be in a hospital; it’s an airport. The furniture seen in a waiting room is seen everywhere, including for sale at the trade fair (which sells useless things such as ‘silent doors’ and vacuum cleaners with headlamps.) And note the posters in the travel agency: all the destinations depicted feature similar modern sky-scrapers. A busload of American tourists arrive and are thrilled with Paris - even though they see nothing different than what would exist in New York, and their biggest thrill comprises the gadgets in the fair.

But Tati’s accusations go further. People live in a grey, hard, cold world. This does not turn them cold, but boxes them in: a flat that Hulot visits is a concrete slab of a home with television sets built into the walls and curtainless windows facing the street. The few instances of colour look out of place; a woman’s green dress is considered ‘out of date’ by her fellow diners. Technology, meant to ease and replace, instead doesn’t work or confuses. The most successful scene takes place in a restaurant on its opening night, when it is still being built and finished. It gradually falls apart, even as more guests are accommodated.

And the language is a part of this. I wondered at first why half the dialogue is in English. Then I noticed that all the signs are either bilingual or completely in English. People can’t read instructions because they are not in French.

All of this satire is laid before the viewer almost kindly. Tati doesn’t berate anyone with his disappointments. Indeed, he seems to celebrate the ability of people to overcome their environments. As the floor tiles in the restaurant come unglued, the kitchen runs out of food, the band leaves and the ceiling collapses, the patrons seem to enjoy themselves more. And even those living in the soulless concrete apartments are hospitable and welcoming.

Aside from the over-arching theme, there are some funny moments straight from silent-era comedies, such as the restaurant’s porter holding the giant knob of a shattered glass door as if the door were still intact, and the reactions of patrons at a lunch counter to the food when it’s lit by a sickly green neon light.

An apparently meaningless adventure, yet one full of purpose, Playtime is an unusual masterpiece of comedy, observation and good-natured satire.