Corridor of Mirrors (1948)

Directed by Terence Young; produced by Rudolph Cartier

Journeying to London by rail, young wife and mother Mifanwy Conway (Edana Romney) recollects the man she knew seven years before. Paul Mangin (Eric Portman) was a fabulously wealthy and eccentric artist, who preferred to dwell in the past. One night, he saw Mifanwy and became smitten by her. His growing fascination with her, and the obsession he had with the past, combined to create a dramatic situation which ended with Mangin being immortalized in Madame Tussaud’s waxworks. But how did it end there? And did it end there?

An involving tale of love and madness, Corridor of Mirrors was adapted from a novel by Christopher Massie, who wrote the source book of the film Love Letters (reviewed on this blog in June, 2021). Corridor of Mirrors, at least as brought to the screen, has a quite different atmosphere compared to the other work. The screenplay was written by the producer and the female lead, Edana Romney; though the latter had had almost no film roles previously, she and Cartier formed a company to produce this movie. It took seven years to gather the financing and interest a studio in the prospects. The results are, if not unforgettable, then satisfying.

The story is rather reminiscent of a Poe tale, without the lurking eerieness. An aspect of the writing is that it keeps the viewer guessing as to where it will go, whether Mangin will descend into lunacy from what is originally a fad, and whether he will do harm as he goes. It involves the viewer as well in the sympathetic character of Mangin; he comes across as eccentric, certainly, but also lonely, with no one understanding either him or his passions. What his ultimate goal may be remains a mystery for much of the movie. It turns out to be rather simple, possibly unattainable, and perhaps deadly.

This is the first directorial effort by Young, and he does a good job. Considering that he went on to direct a number of James Bond movies, it’s ironic that he is more successful in Corridor of Mirrors when he concentrates on faces, expressions and gestures, rather than wider action; but then, leading man Portman was especially good at subtle looks, and Romney, while not in her co-star’s league, is liked by the camera.

As mentioned, Romney is capable in her performance, but not outstanding. This was her only starring role, and she soon afterward settled into the new medium of television, as a programme hostess. She became another kind of hostess when, in her thirties, she moved to Hollywood and became famous for her house-parties.

Portman carries the movie in his part as Paul Mangin. We never see the character painting, and it appears that his art is hardly a passion. Portman instead gives Mangin a quiet but deep and possibly dangerous love of the past, an idealized, romantic past that cannot be recreated. The edge with which Mangin is portrayed comes from not knowing if he realises the impossibility of his fantasies. Nonetheless, it is Portman who allows Mangin to become more sympathetic as the film progresses.

A word should be mentioned as well of Barbara Mullen, who plays the suitably unnerving Veronica. It is a small but effective role. Look for Christopher Lee in a bit part, his movie debut.

The set design and the lighting must be commended, too, particularly at the end when we see the fruition of Mangin’s fever for renaissance Italy. It might have been spectacular in colour; even so, the impression that the back garden of Mangin’s townhouse is an expansive and separate world, the product of a limitlessly romantic mind and a nearly limitless bank account, is convincing.

Corridor of Mirrors doesn’t quite match any genre, while it borrows from several. Not excellent, but very good, it conjures up a world not quite real, highlighted by the mundanity of the lives ‘bookending’ the principal story. It’s worth an evening’s viewing.

The Fallen Sparrow (1943)

Directed by Richard Wallace; produced by Robert Fellows

Having been captured by the Nationalists while fighting in the Spanish Civil War, John ‘Kit’ McKittrick (John Garfield) returns to the United States to find out who killed his friend, a New York police officer. Since he helped McKittrick escape from his jailers, the man’s death may have something to do with Spain, though how closely events in the U.S. are tied to what happened to McKittrick in the war, the latter can only guess.

The Fallen Sparrow has the feel of a Hemingway story, though the plot seems rather too convoluted for that origin. It is also a movie that could have had Humphrey Bogart as its lead. It is, however, very well-served by Garfield, who gives a more vulnerable performance than Bogart might have. That’s not to write that the latter could not have done as well - he was a far better actor than many of his roles, performed as if without effort by the man, imply - but Garfield’s weaknesses are more openly seen. Indeed, they are necessary to the story, and thus must be shown both convincingly and unmistakably.

The acting is the strongest part of The Fallen Sparrow, as the characters are interpreted interestingly. The viewer may have little difficulty in determining the principal villains, but who may be assisting them, whether they are being helped willingly or otherwise, and who will pay for it and how, are all factors conveyed more by the characters than by the plot.

Maureen O’Hara does well as a woman who clearly has something to hide, and her behaviour is greatly influenced by it. John Miljan has an enjoyable part as a police detective who appears to have trouble believing McKittrick’s intentions, while hiding his own. And that’s John Banner (Sergeant Schultz from tv’s Hogan’s Heroes) looking as a young man very much like comic-actor Bill Murray.

The plot starts off as a standard film noir story-line: a man coming to town to look into, and possibly avenge, a friend’s death. More important than that, however, is McKittrick’s background, and the reason why he was held by the Nationalists in Spain and tortured. It revolves around a battle standard but becomes less plausible as the movie progresses. Though I can fully appreciate the moral value of a symbol, it is never really explained why the symbol in question is important. Nor is there an explanation of its connection to the coat-of-arms of an expatriate French aristocrat.

Of note is the editing, by future famed director Robert Wise. He interestingly fades to black a number of scenes at dramatic or tense points, especially when McKittrick’s highly strung nerves force him to re-live his torture. This technique gives insight into the protagonist’s damaged psyche that needs no words.

The Fallen Sparrow is an entertaining thriller, rather let down by its writing, which is ordinary on the one hand and incredible on the other. It is, however, redeemed enough by its performers to recommend.

Easy Living (1937)

Directed by Mitchell Leisen; produced by Arthur Hornblow Jr

Fed up with her over-spending, banker J B Ball (Edward Arnold) throws his wife’s new fur coat off the roof of their New York townhouse. It lands on near-penniless Mary Smith (Jean Arthur). This random act touches off a chain of circumstances that leads to romance, mistaken identities, economic disaster and an epic food-fight.

The set-up is perfect for a classic 1930s screwball comedy; with a screenplay written by Preston Sturges, Jean Arthur for a leading lady, Ray Milland as her love-interest and Edward Arnold as a supporting player, one would think a hit was in the making. One would be wrong. Easy Living is a loud, largely unfunny movie that, despite the talent that goes into it, manages to be rather boring.

The screenplay by Sturges has its problems. Every author has his off-day, and Easy Living may have been written on Sturges’s. The man that penned The Great McGinty, Sullivan’s Travels and The Palm Beach Story certainly showed otherwise that he was a master-craftsman at comedy. The actual plot of Easy Living is a good one, if predictable from our current point in time. There are funny moments, such as when Mary, needing to salvage a few cents from a piggy-bank, puts a tiny blindfold on the piggy before smashing it.

Such scenes are forgotten, however, with the introduction of tedious characters such as Luis Alberni’s hotelier, Louis Louis, and the awkward placement of slapstick. The interjections of servants and minor characters don’t come off well, either, and Arnold’s character is rather erratically written.

The acting is not at fault. Arthur is extremely winning, as always, and Milland, a versatile actor when in his prime, is a capable partner-in-crime. Arnold provides good support, showing that, if provided with a stable character, he can play a sympathetic, if gruff, man as well as a villain.

What sinks Easy Living is, I believe, the direction. Though Leisen was behind the camera on a number of fine movies, this isn’t one of them. Perhaps screwball comedy was not his forté. Much of the dialogue is delivered with a heavy hand; there is too much shouting, too many double-takes; certainly excess is often used successfully in farce, but that genre is not as simple to perform as it may seem. The riot in an automat is amusing, but even that is a bit too extended for its best effect.

Easy Living is a misfire, though not without its graces (even if they aren’t of the ‘saving’ kind). It might have done better if the writer were also the director, as he was in his biggest hits.

Impact (1949)

Directed by Arthur Lubin; produced by Leo C Popkin

Walter Williams (Brian Donlevy) has everything he could want. A powerful industrialist, he is confident, wealthy and respected, with a fine home and a beautiful wife, Irene, whom he adores. But one day, all that changes. Irene (Helen Walker), is not only having an affair but plots with her boyfriend, Jim (Tony Barrett), to kill Williams. In executing the homicidal scheme, however, it is Jim who is killed, accidentally, and in a fashion that makes the world think it is Williams who died. Will the would-be victim remain hidden or seek his revenge?

Donlevy rarely filled the parts given to character actors; neither did he often play the lead. But he has his chance in Impact, and he succeeds admirably. Often a villain, he is usually gruff, irascible or hard even when a good guy; his naturally stern expression helps. Here, he turns that to advantage. Williams is a tough man, used to getting what he wants. But he is also, as his unfaithful wife rightly assesses, a ‘softy’: he is concerned with others’ welfare, will do favours for strangers and becomes embarrassed when anyone sees how much he feels for his wife.

Williams is portrayed, in fact, as quite human. Donlevy’s conveyance of a man crushed by betrayal is convincing, especially so at the moment when he deduces that his spouse had tried to have him murdered. Thereafter, Williams develops a different kind of hardness than he had had, yet with vulnerability.

Donlevy’s performance is crucial to Impact’s success, but other actors do as well. Ella Raines, as Marsha, the small-town widow who takes a liking to Williams, conveys a forthright freshness that is needed, while Walker makes her treacherous character suitably vile, twisting at every angle to gain whatever advantage is to be had. Charles Coburn, perhaps a bit too old to play a police detective, even one facing retirement, is energetic and amusing in his search for justice.

Director Lubin fit Impact between several Abbot and Costello films on one side and a couple of Francis the Talking Mule flicks on the other – and he does a fine job of it. He keeps things subtle, for the most part, even in the scene when Williams is overwhelmed by the enormity of the plot against him. At one point, Williams, who had been ten years a mechanic before taking a desk job, hesitates before beginning a car’s repair job: as someone points out, his hands show he hadn’t done such work in a while. That’s typical of the small touches Lubin includes.

The script is also good, though it becomes rather too complicated in the final act, and, at 111 minutes, could have been tightened a bit in the editing room. Nonetheless, it complements the direction in its use of almost incidental moments. When Marsha talks about continuing to run her garage after her husband’s death in combat, she – and the script – hurries past the admission, as if dwelling on it for more than a second or two would be too painful.

Impact is a good crime-film with a concentration on character. That is so much to its advantage, in fact, that when the plot looms larger than the people, it rather hurts the movie. Nonetheless, thanks to the acting and directing, this is an entertaining and enjoyable picture.

The Limey (1999)

Directed by Steven Soderbergh; produced by John Hardy and Scott Kramer

English career-criminal Wilson (Terence Stamp), newly released from prison, travels to Los Angeles to discover the truth behind the death of his daughter Jenny. Officially, she died in a fiery car-crash, but Wilson disbelieves this. His principal lead is Jenny’s much-older former boyfriend, record-producer Terry Valentine (Peter Fonda). Valentine and his ‘security consultant’ Avery (Barry Newman) learn of Wilson’s arrival; what they don’t know is just how determined and dangerous the Briton is.

At once a crime thriller and psychological character-study (as the best crime-thrillers seem to be) The Limey is a first-rate movie with high quality acting, writing, directing and – certainly not least – editing. The number of opinions I have heard and read of people disliking it at first, then thinking it excellent upon a second viewing is telling: its method of narrative is a contrast to most films.

At the centre of The Limey is Stamp’s performance. It is uniformly top-notch. He makes Wilson volatile, charming, fearless, deadly, caring and sympathetic. Wilson is a hard man, but one gathers that there is nothing he wouldn’t do for a true friend – though he seems unable to think of anyone who fits that category.

Wilson is a Cockney, complete with rhyming slang. His character might seem to border on caricature: too much of a Cockney to be true. But this is a man who has spent much, if not most, of his adult life in prison – he has trouble differentiating his various sentences – so he is a bit of a time-capsule: the behaviour and phrases he knows are from thirty years before. He has not had the opportunity to stay current, or to be influenced by the world at large.

Fonda’s Valentine is another interesting character, though nowhere near as likeable. He too is trapped in the past, though his incarceration is willing, and he has had every facility for living in the present and for the future. Instead, his glory days were the 1960s. In fact, he narrows them down to perhaps eighteen months: “1966, and some of ’67…”

Yet Valentine’s relationship with Jenny seems to have been genuine: the girl made an impression on everyone she met. Valentine’s conversations with another girlfriend are banal – his one serious talk with her is met with incomprehension - highlighting his lack of chemistry with her and, perhaps, accentuating by implication, his connection with Jenny.

Two other characters are fully realised: Roel (Luis Guzman) and Elaine (Lesley Ann Warren). They befriended Jenny and assist Wilson, though their respective approaches to that help is a contrast: Roel, a former convict, has an appreciation of Wilson based on similar pasts; Elaine is initially dismissive of the much-absent father Jenny had told her about. Other, more minor characters are used mainly for complications.

The writing doesn’t really offer surprises, except at the end, in the motive for Jenny’s death, which is related to how she used to behave with her father. But the script’s value is in how it unfolds the story, and the characters, especially of Wilson. We learn that he thinks Jenny was ashamed of him – Elaine corrects that to ‘disappointed’ – but it’s really Wilson who is ashamed and disappointed of how he let his daughter down. The emotions in the script are well-translated to the screen by Stamp’s face, once boyishly handsome, now rugged and lived-in.

Soderbergh’s direction is subtle, though it is actually overwhelmed by the more explicit editing, by Sarah Flack. Yet it is there in the small things, such how Wilson signifies that he appreciates Roel’s help by flicking a pack of cigarettes across a table toward him, or how the first thing that Wilson concentrates upon after stepping out of the airport terminal is a pair of local policemen.

But what confuses not a few viewers is the segmentation of a number of scenes. For instance, during a conversation, we see other events happening, some in the near future, some at an indeterminant time. Images appear that are seemingly unconnected with what is going on. This is not as bewildering as it may read. These brief glimpses of other actions are sometimes used as flashbacks, or as foreshadowing; sometimes to illustrate another scene of lesser importance which completes a principal scene without leaving it (eg. we see Wilson driving to a location while being given directions to it; the next complete scene is him already there). They also provide examples of the subject being discussed – this is often the case when Jenny is talked of – or to show feelings that continue over long periods. This editing trickery helps maintain a short, sharp running time (89 minutes) while sneakily adding more body to the film. Would I like to see it in movies frequently? Not at all. But in The Limey it is very effective.

The Limey is character-heavy, stoey-heavy creation fitted into a lean movie, driven by all the right elements.

The Great Rupert (1950)

Directed by Irving Pichel; produced by George Pal

The Amendola family - Papa (Jimmy Durante), Mama (Queenie Smith) and daughter Rosalinda (Terry Moore) - a former Vaudeville act unemployed for some months, manage to find a rundown garage to rent until they get back on their feet. Unbeknownst to them, they share their quarters with a squirrel named Rupert, whose circus-performer owner (Jimmy Conlin) had to let him go due to circumstances similar to the Amendolas’. But Rupert unwittingly may be the literal answer to his new neighbours’ prayers.

The Great Rupert had an promising premise - a cleverly-trained performing squirrel inadvertently solving human problems - but then submerged it in a run-of-the-mill plot about a family’s rise from rags to riches. The movie’s failure is due to the latter aspect, and not the former, being its focus.

Instead of Rupert, Jimmy Durante takes centre-stage. Certainly, being a fan of old movies, comedies included, I can testify that many, indeed the majority, of old movies don’t date badly. Comedy, however, probably has the most to fear from changing tastes, yet the work of Sturges, Capra, Lloyd, Keaton and, of course, Chaplin - along with a multitude of others - rise beyond any one era. Some comedy does not. I have not watched a lot of Durante, so The Great Rupert may simply be a bad example of an otherwise worthy talent.

It might be the writing that is to blame, though the sub-plot, featuring a romance between Rosalinda and her landlord’s son (Tom Drake), is mildly involving; ironic, when forced romantic side-stories are usually the weakest part of any comedy. When Durante is on the screen, though, the humour is lame; the sort of jokes that one must laugh at because they’re told by one’s girlfriend’s father. To be fair, a great many comics - especially those with successful stand-up routines - come a cropper when forced to work with other writers’ material. This has been often the case on television.

There are features of the film that are interesting, at least: Rupert goes through his antics in a combination of real-life squirrel action and stop-motion photography. It puzzled me initially, seeing George Pal’s name as the producer, how his particular talents would fit in to this film. Granted, Pal produced and directed a variety of very good films, including The War of the Worlds, The Naked Jungle, When Worlds Collide and 7 Faces of Dr Lao. But he had his start in stop-action animation and, sure enough, here it is again, in The Great Rupert. Both Pal and the director appear as extras in scenes.

The Amendolas discover new wealth and use it not just for their own material comfort, but to help others. A charity to which they give a thousand dollars is one which provides shoes for European children; this was a real and specific need after the Second World War. Also, they invest in local businesses; most of these have proprietors with non-English names, and one has an eastern European accent. The message, subtly given, is that with just a little help, immigrants will make successes of themselves and their communities; a commendable message, but no more than of incidental entertainment in a comedy.

Despite its title, The Great Rupert misses the mark by making the story about humans - and humans who don’t even know of Rupert’s existence - instead of putting the squirrel at the centre, and having various human stories revolve around him. The result is a bland, largely unfunny, comedy.

Wanted for Murder (1946)

Directed by Lawrence Huntington; produced by Marcel Hellman

Businessman Victor Colebrooke (Eric Portman) is handsome, cultured, wealthy and has a way with the ladies; he is also neurotic, quick-tempered, unreasonable and insane. So far, he has strangled six women, with the police investigation, led by Detective Chief Inspector Conway (Roland Culver), at a dead end. But with his mania increasing, Colebrooke is taking too many chances for the intelligent Conway to be far behind. But will Scotland Yard catch the killer before he finishes with his next victim?

There is no mystery here, except whether the murderer will be caught, and when – and how far he will carry his homicidal spree in the meantime. The plot is straightforward, and it’s the screenplay (co-written by Emeric Pressburger), with the acting, that propels the story. Taken from a play, the various scenes, particularly the last, which takes place in Hyde Park, release the film from any resemblance to stage work, though the emphasis on dialogue suggests its origins.

The writing creates a number of relationships, each of which has an effect on the others. Not only does Colebrooke’s mother, worried and vaguely suspicious over her son’s life, figure prominently in the story, but so does Colebrooke’s long-dead father – a Victorian-era hangman! Though an interesting suggestion as to the son’s murderous impulses, the latter connection raises a question on the part of the viewer: would have an affluent family allowed their daughter to marry someone whose trade is execution?

The acting is very good. The male lead is played by the excellent Eric Portman – not his first time in a Pressburger-penned film – whose naturally superior expression lends itself well to the rôle. His character’s growing distraction is well-realised and, though at the film’s start, Colebrooke successfully – though barely – hides his increasing madness, it takes over his life by the end. Each stage is credible, thanks to Portman.

Though she has a little less time on screen, the female lead is as good, and an even more remarkable person in real-life. Dulcie Gray was a very popular movie-actress in the 1940s and ‘50s, but she was better known as a stage performer. She was married for 59 years to fellow actor Michael Denison. They were not only regarded as very happy together, they were apparently as happy collaborating on work-projects, being in several movies and plays together. Between them, they accomplished more than a hundred West End productions. As if that were not enough, Gray wrote many books, mostly mysteries, but also biographies. She was also an expert on butterflies. Evidently feeling the need to expand her horizons, she became very well known in her old age for her television work. In Wanted for Murder, Gray makes her character, Anne Fielding, quite winning. Though not the prettiest of actresses, it is easy to see why more than one man is attracted to her.

Culver is suitably clever and dogged as the police inspector, while a small host of other familiar British actors appear, including Stanley Holloway, atypically playing a police detective (though used for comic relief); Derek Farr, as one of Anne’s admirers; Kathleen Harrison, as a servant (what would have been called then a ‘cook-general’). Also to be seen in small, early bits are Moira Lister, as Colebrooke’s secretary, and Wilfred Hyde-White, nearly unrecognizable behind a large mustache (though that voice is unmistakable), as a wax-museum’s guard.

Though the direction is not much above ordinary, it does provide interest, and the climax is well-handled. And, as priorly mentioned, it translates the play from stage to screen effectively.

Wanted for Murder works its acting and writing into an entertaining crime story, perhaps more of a psychological character study than a thriller, but successful enough in both categories to merit watching.