Without a Clue (1988)

Directed by Thom Eberhardt; produced by Marc Stirdivant

In 1900, Sherlock Holmes is the famous private detective who is the hero of every law-abiding citizen in the world, and the nemesis of every villain. Imperturbable, brilliant, eccentric, no criminal is safe from him. And he doesn’t exist. Doctor John Watson (Ben Kingsley) created the character to camouflage his own sleuthing skills for the sake of his professional reputation – and then had to conjure up the ‘real’ Holmes in the shape of an actor, Reginald Kincaid (Michael Caine), to satisfy his fans. Now, Watson is stuck as the sidekick to a dense, opportunistic, womanizing inebriate – just as the evil Moriarty (Paul Freeman) is set to ruin the economy of the British Empire.

This hilarious premise is the basis of the comedy Without a Clue and, though it is a one-joke premise, the film does manage to make it last long enough for a feature. This is due principally to the lead actors. Caine has performed in comedy before this but, except for Shakespeare, I think this is Kingsley’s first foray in the genre; both do very well. Kingsley, in particular, is successful, as much of his comedy comes from eye movements, small expressions and inflection of voice. Caine has the broader laughs, encompassing even slapstick.

The other actors contribute adequately. Freeman, Jeffrey Jones, Lysette Anthony, Pat Keen and young Matthew Savage – like Caine and Kingsley – seem to be enjoying themselves in their roles.

The script is good, though it wavers from hit to miss, and never quite attains the promise of the premise. The writers (Gary Murphy, Larry Strawther) worked almost exclusively in television (including for Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show) - Without a Clue is their only movie credit – and some of the humour is at sit-com level. (And don’t ask me why Moriarty wants to destroy the British economy; I still have no idea. In fact, since his scheme involves counterfeiting five-pound notes, one wonders how successful it would have been at a time when five pounds was such an amount that most Britons rarely saw such a note…)

One of the problems of the script is with Reginald Kincaid. Played for laughs, he is a drinker and a gambler, someone whose eye for the ladies never stops roving. But because of this, it is difficult to believe that he would ever persuade the public that he is the genius depicted in Watson’s stories, or that Watson would ever have chosen him to portray his creation. There are a number of mitigations for these omissions (eg. Watson may have needed nothing more than a stop-gap measure in hiring Kincaid), but these reasons are not given, and must be surmised. Of course, part of the comedy – and good parts – arise from the ridiculous situation of Holmes’s adoring fans being too smitten by his every action and utterance to think he is not the demi-god they worship. And a character whose failings are more inadvertent may have steered the story into pathos, which clearly was not wanted by the writers.

A good idea was the inclusion of several other characters in Watson’s secret. The loyalty of the Baker Street Irregulars to the good doctor, and Moraiarty’s knowledge that his real enemy is Watson (“He knows you’re an idiot,” Watson tells Kincaid), make for amusing scenes, as does Watson’s revelation to his editor (Peter Cook).

While it could have been much better, Without a Clue is nonetheless a fun movie, a comedy which, despite the insults that fly throughout, is without viciousness. Light, undemanding humour, good performances, and a satisfying finish make it enjoyable entertainment.

Without Reservations (1946)

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy; produced by Jesse Lasky Jr

Kit Madden (Claudette Colbert), the authoress of an immensely popular and influential best-seller, is headed to Hollywood to collaborate in the adaptation of her novel to the big screen. As she is about to board her train, she learns that Cary Grant, intended for the lead role, cannot participate. Initially upset, she decides that the problem is a blessing in disguise when she meets U.S. marine officer Rusty Thomas (John Wayne), who bears a striking resemblance to her vision (and the dust-jacket image) of her book’s hero. Her plan to persuade him to star in the movie hits one bump after another when, first, she realises Rusty intensely dislikes her book, and second, their journey west is detoured time and again. What really derails her scheme, though, is the fact that she’s falling in love with her hero.

Before I discovered this film, I certainly would not have considered John Wayne and Claudette Colbert as a romantic couple; they seem to have inhabited two different movie-making worlds. Indeed, this may have been the thought behind the casting. After all, someone more urbane – such as Cary Grant – is who one might determine to be perfect for Colbert, who usually plays witty, sophisticated women. The fact is, however, that the two stars work very well together. Wayne handles light comedy easily if not expertly, and Colbert can pretty much succeed in any film-pairing.

The acting and the characters are strong points in Without Reservations. Aside from the leads, Don DeFore, as Wayne’s friend, gives good support: he is the common sense to Wayne’s mild hard-headedness, sees exactly what his pal is going through, and tries to prod things along. Other beneficial parts are given to Charles Arnt as a man bewailing his bad luck in automobiles and, especially, Frank Puglia, as a robust farmer and father to a large motherless brood. These are offset, however, by two particularly annoying characters (Anne Triola, Phil Brown).

The characters are well-written and fit into the movie. Colbert’s Kit is a passionate believer in the philosophy of her book, which seems part romance and part ideological treatise. Wayne, on the other hand, is a straightforward sort, who wants an uncomplicated relationship with a ‘helpless’ woman. Nonetheless, Wayne’s character is, perhaps, the more unusual: what one may view as a simple marine flyer has evidently made his way through four hundred pages of a book he dislikes, and has strong opinions on the subject and the writing, and reasons to back them up.

The story and the script are Without Reservation’s weakest bits, ironically, considering the movie centres on a book. The series of adventures that the trio have making their way to California are episodic, with each part unrelated to the others, with too much contrivance. Though the script allows for plenty of humour, most of it comes from spoken lines, and not from situations; the story could have taken place entirely on one train and been as good or better. As well, there is a missed opportunity, I feel: Kit is clearly in love with her book’s hero - she has ‘lived with him for two years’ – and, at first, sees Rusty as his embodiment. That his personality is so different than his fictional counterpart obviously causes her confusion, but the reasons her affection for him grows nonetheless are never really examined. As well, Rusty’s attraction to Kit was as superficial as hers for him but he falls in love with the woman even so. This involves the characters changing, and that aspect of the film could have been emphasized more.

Something that perhaps can be appreciated only at a distance from 1946 is the fact that the characters in the movie understand that they are at a crossroads of history, as pivotal as the arrival of colonists in North America that Rusty describes. It is difficult for us in the darker and more cynical twenty-first century to understand the light and hope people emerging from the evils of World War Two must have felt.

Not a failure by any means, Without Reservations is a good entry into the genre of ‘road’ movies, the couple falling in love as they travel, similar in some ways to Colbert’s earlier It Happened One Night. It benefits from the odd partnership of its leads. But, let down somewhat by the writing, it could have been more than it is.

 

The Asphalt Jungle (1950)

Directed by John Huston; produced by Arthur Hornblow Jr

Just released from prison, famous and respected criminal mastermind Doc Reidenschneider (Sam Jaffe) immediately sets in motion a long-cherished plan to rob a jewellery store. For its successful execution, he needs a safe-cracker (Anthony Caruso), a driver (James Whitmore) and a strong-arm man (Sterling Hayden) - a ‘hooligan’ - as well as a stake, provided by a bookie and all-round go-between (Marc Lawrence). Lastly, he needs a fence or someone who knows a fence, a service provided by a crooked lawyer (Louis Calhern). Despite problems, the heist is carried out. But like a small crack in a wall, a simple side-effect can spread, and bring everything down.

One of the best films noir, and probably one of the earliest caper movies taken from the criminals’ point of view, The Asphalt Jungle hasn’t aged a bit. Superb acting, writing and direction combine to make a tense, exciting, entertaining picture in which the viewer rarely knows what is going to happen from one scene to the next, yet every step is logical and, dramatically, inevitable.

The screenplay, adapted by Ben Maddow and director Huston from a novel, eschews clever or memorable lines for words that are realistic and revealing. The characters are the sort the viewer can imagine meeting; they are not deep, nor are they superficial. Jaffe and Hayden’s characters are central, and the latter’s in particular is interesting. Not dumb, he nonetheless can’t fathom people; he says more than once that he “doesn’t get it”, when someone does something the motive of which is pretty obvious. Even so, the mastermind and the hooligan develop an affinity that make them a good team: their unspoken consultation, conducted with a glance, when they realise a double-cross is in the works, and their resultant co-operation in escaping, shows their unlikely sympathy of mind.

Every character in The Asphalt Jungle is well-written, from the relatively decent bookie to the hard-driven police chief (John McIntire, somewhat resembling a later generation’s Hal Holbrook). The girl (Jean Hagen) in love with the hooligan is pathetic in her devotion, and a world away from the actress’s role in Singing’ in the Rain.

Surprisingly, perhaps, most of the criminals show a high degree of loyalty to each other. This makes more sense than the constant and universal betrayals of many movies: whether from altruism, respect or the plain logic of making sure no one gives cause for someone else to inform, these thieves do have a kind of honour among themselves.

The acting carries the excellent characters from script’s page to reality. Hayden and Jaffe lead the cast, the latter revealing more through what he doesn’t say, the former in the emotions of his words. There is a good scene in which he describes the farm on which he grew up, and which he is determined to buy back: the alternation of his face numerous times between happiness and anger demonstrates how motivated the seemingly simple thug is by his feelings. Calhern turns what may have been a standard treacherous, corrupt attorney into someone almost sympathetic. His scene playing cards with the wife (Dorothy Tree) for whom he feels no affection is almost tender. Marilyn Monroe is out of place in her small part as the lawyer’s mistress; the role surely couldn’t have made anyone think bigger things were in the offing for the actress. Strother Martin has, literally, a walk-on as a suspect in a police line-up.

The direction is exactly what is needed. The robbery scene is actually pretty simple, yet tense; I kept expecting the ‘electric eye’ to set off the alarms. When what is coming is foreshadowed - the arrival of two thieves at what is really an ambush, for instance - suspense is effectively created, and surprises are well-handled.

The Asphalt Jungle has been influential on a number of directors and writers, and on other films, and a few changes in technology don’t make it irrelevant today. An expertly-crafted story of crime, avarice, betrayal and humanity never goes out of style.

 

The Harder They Fall (1956)

Directed by Mark Robson; produced by Philip Jordan

Out of money and with the years advancing, Eddie Willis (Humphrey Bogart), a respected but unemployed sports writer, takes a job with the unscrupulous promoter Nick Benko (Rod Steiger), working as a press agent to a new fighter, Toro Moreno (Mike Lane). It takes only a minute of seeing the boxer in the ring for Willis to realise that he’s been hired to propagandise a talentless sucker for the enrichment of ruthless managers.

The Harder They Fall is Bogart’s final film, and made me wish his penultimate movie, The Desparate Hours, had been his last instead. The Harder They Fall is not bad but, had it not come as Bogey’s valedictory, it would have been, I think, one of his forgotten works.

Bogart handles himself well, as he usually does, but there is nothing remarkable in his performance. He is matched with Steiger, and seeing the two of them together is like seeing two eras of Hollywood film-making, one ending, one beginning, and the newer is not the better. It doesn’t help that Steiger indulges in his trademark histrionics, though he doesn’t reach the stages of over-acting he achieved later. Certainly, he was capable of excellent performances (eg. In the Heat of the Night), and he is fittingly malevolent here. The acting styles, though, highlight changing tastes - perhaps more with actors than with audiences. The other performers acquit themselves decently but no more. Jan Sterling, as Willis’s wife, is wasted; her role had little point.

The script is good, with some memorable lines, but the story is straightforward and predictable. Willis is seduced by the sudden wealth that comes with his position: he needs “not just money, but a bank account”. The question isn’t whether he will stay on the wrong side - the viewer knows he’s too moral for that - but what will happen to make him switch, and even that question isn’t very involving.

The premise of boxing management exploiting the fighters to the umpteenth degree is an obvious one, and the audience is hit over the head with it. The promoters and contract-owners think of their boxers as lazy, stupid, worthless, and say so. There is some interest in how Bogart’s character tries to maintain his job while wringing some concessions out of managers for the people they exploit, but the means the movie uses to push its point is typically shown in one long scene in which a sports writer (Harold J Stone) with a television series shows his filmed interview with a former fighter. There is no subtlety to the screenplay.

As well, I find it hard to believe that Benko and his stable of paid fall-guys could stage twenty or more faked victories in the ring for Moreno without fight-fans catching on. Sports writers see that Moreno’s opponents are taking dives, other boxers see it; people who watch boxing devotedly must realise something is up by the powerless style of Moreno’s punching and his clumsy moves. As well, he is touted as South America’s heavyweight champion, with thirty-six knock-outs, yet no reporter investigates a claim that could be easily dismissed.

While The Harder They Fall has something to say, it says it with sledgehammer punches, instead of fancy footwork. It’s nothing very bad, but not much more than acceptable, either.