Though Leo McCarey is best known for his screwballs, his greatest skill appears to be the drama. Make Way For Tomorrow (1937) is one of my all-time favorite films, and this underseen gem from 1935, featuring Charles Laughton as the dignified butler Marmaduke Ruggles who ultimately yearns for an identity of his own, is alternately charming and deeply touching. Ruggles of Red Gap opens with the discovery that the Earl of Burnstead, George Vane Bassingwell (Roland Young), has lost his loyal servant Ruggles in a poker game. The winners? The Floud’s, a late-middle aged couple from Red Gap, a small town in rural Washington: Effie (Mary Boland) and Egbert (Charles Ruggles; ironic, or something). Desperate for some sophistication in her saloon-driven Western town, Effie brings Ruggles back to stay with and serve them, hoping his impeccable manners and pristine ways will rub off on Egbert, a hard-drinking, mustachioed cowboy sort, and the town as a whole.

One of McCarey’s gifts is how he deftly spreads the sentiment around. Here, Ruggles may be the centerpiece, but Effie is perhaps the most interesting and sympathetic character. Here’s a woman who fashions herself an elderly bourgeoise-in-training, who wishes for nothing more than to possess extreme grace and to host lavish dinners and cocktail parties…but she’s completely lost on how to act, beyond insisting that her sloppy husband ditch the plaid jackets and buy some proper suits. There’s a wonderful moment where Ruggles fails to show up to orchestrate a dinner party, and an overmatched Effie stammers, stumbles, and ad-libs while 30 guests look on in bemusement. It’s both quite funny, especially with Egbert staggering around rebelliously—a common occurrence—and moving: Effie’s chosen to settle in a place where her wants are completely at odds with the town’s ways, and it’s too late for her to really learn them herself or to put down roots elsewhere. If McCarey’s social commentary on class disparities and lifestyles isn’t exactly Buñuelian, it certainly makes it points: some things can’t be taught, and some things are unacceptable in certain parts of the country, and the world.

And Ruggles? He fits into this equation neatly, also discovering that trying to be someone you’re not is tougher than it first appears. Ultimately, however, he finds the courage to break with family tradition and set off on his own path, and eventually earns a satisfying—and much-deserved—acceptance from the people of Red Gap (Egbert among them, though he shows it’s not so easy to change ones stripes, especially when it might affect the flow of whiskey and back-slapping with the boys). Ruggles of Red Gap is always entertaining, sharply written and directed, and features superb performances from all three leads. Its mix of comedy and drama is smoothly handled by McCarey, and warrants more attention than it’s received in most film circles. And if it’s not quite Make Way For Tomorrow…really, what is?

77/100

I’ve now seen three Joseph Losey films, with The Prowler following The Boy With Green Hair (1948) and These Are The Damned (1963). The best phrase I can think of to describe my reaction to his work is harmless indifference. I like Losey’s directorial creativity from a thought process standpoint, but the finished product seems to be a mediocre expression of a talented mind. The Prowler, for instance, opens with the attractive Susan Gilvray (Evenlyn Keyes) soaking in the bathtub in the evening. She glances out the open windows, screams, and closes the blinds. Losey then cuts to two policeman—Webb Garwood (Van Heflin) and Bud Crocker (John Maxwell)—knocking on the front door of her palatial California home, investigating her call of a stranger skulking about on her front lawn. This is important: as The Prowler progresses, we quickly begin to question whether or not there even was a prowler at all. Was Susan, the wife of the famous radio DJ John Gilvray (Sherry Hall)—a man whom she, and we, hardly ever see—simply clamoring for attention? Was her loneliness causing her eyes to play tricks? Or did she really see something? The Prowler gradually evolves into a depiction of lust, emotional & sexual insecurity, and just how far people will go—and where their boundaries lie.

All this makes for a pretty cool setup, which makes the perfectly-passable-but-fairly-bland end result all the more disappointing. There’s just a lack of energy to the entire proceedings: the final 20 minutes in a dusty ghost town are fairly strong, but mediocre acting keeps them from having any major clout. Heflin in particular is a weak choice for a leading role: his facial expressions seem to be permanently etched in either some sort of smirk or a look of disgust. Losey’s script is fine, but doesn’t really draw the audience in, or inspire compassion for any of the characters. As a result, even The Prowler’s best sequences lack any deep emotional heft. This all sounds a bit harsher than it should, really—The Prowler is entertaining, brisk, and certainly not a shallow work. But it leaves the viewer with this lingering feeling of what could have been.

56/100

If it’s not quite Sunset Boulevard, Vincente Minnelli’s The Bad and the Beautiful stands on its own as a scathing portrait of Hollywood’s cutthroat ways and means. Set in the smoky back rooms of Los Angeles studios—in fact, self-serving producer Jonathan Shields (Kirk Douglas) is puffing a cigarette in nearly every scene—The Bad and the Beautiful is the tale of how the manipulative Shields used three of those closest to him for personal gain, yet deeply contributed to their eventual career success. Plagued-with-self-doubt director Fred Amiel (Barry Sullivan), beautiful-but-masochistic actress Georgia Larrison (Lana Turner), and beleaguered writer James Lee Bartlow (Dick Powell) all taste the double-crossing wrath of Shields, the son of a hated movie bigwig who lusts for power and to prove that he’s more than just a loathed man’s child. Early on, it’s difficult to envision that Shields will pull it off: his initial meeting with Amiel is at his father’s funeral, where Amiel served as one of many mourners paid eleven bucks by Shields so his father wouldn’t be buried in complete solitude. His grand family home is stripped barren a la Citizen Kane; a bottle of gin and a few paintings are all that’s left. The last of his dollars went to Amiel & company at the funeral. Before he’s accomplished a thing on his own, Shields appears in grave danger of fading into total obscurity.

And yet, the opposite happens. Rather than succumb to his fate, Shields begins working in a bit role producing B-movies, and then leverages an opportunity—Amiel’s ambitious script for an adaptation of a favorite novel—into landing the star Gaucho (Gilbert Roland). So begins Shields’ ascent into one of Hollywood’s most powerful figures, and it starts with how it will often continue: back-stabbing someone close to him. In this instance, Amiel gets tossed to the curb once his script is accepted, as Shields elects to go in a different direction. The Bad and the Beautiful continues on this path, a series of extended flashbacks—the film opens with producer Harry Pebbel (Walter Pidgeon) trying to coax the three into one final project with Shields—depicting how Shields built up, and subsequently tore down, the trio’s hopes and dreams. Its message, that the adversity and heartbreak of Hollywood can toughen one up, creating a star that wouldn’t have been there otherwise, is delivered strongly and smoothly in the first two acts (Amiel and Larrison’s backstories). The third segment, Bartlow’s, is a bit uneven: though it has some great moments, the premise that the circumstances in question could be viewed as a ‘positive,’ no matter what became of Bartlow’s screenwriting career afterwards, is at best a stretch and at worst downright offensive. Still, the overarching themes are delivered strongly, often ruthlessly, and Minnelli’s controlled-but-penetrating direction, coupled with powerful performances by Douglas, Turner—an alcohol-soaked encounter between the two in a tightly-framed room is riveting—and the rest of the cast, including Gloria Grahame (In a Lonely Place; The Big Heat) as Bartlow’s feisty wife make The Bad and the Beautiful a mostly excellent work. Shields is unable to grasp true happiness, no matter how much authority he gets, no matter how full his mansion becomes. And the final few images, filmed outside Pebbel’s offices after the three make their decision, are a perfect portrayal of Hollywood’s unique, yet turbulent, allure.

73/100

SOME SPOILERS ARE PRESENT IN THIS ESSAY! NONE SHOULD REALLY HINDER YOUR ENJOYMENT & APPRECIATION OF SANSHÔ THE BAILIFF, BUT IF YOU PREFER TO GO INTO IT WITH A BLANK SLATE, I’D SUGGEST WAITING UNTIL AFTER YOU WATCH IT TO READ THIS REVIEW.

Has a director ever had more extraordinary back-to-back years than Kenji Mizoguchi in 1953 and 1954? With Ugetsu and then Sanshô the Bailiff, Mizoguchi produced two of the decade’s greatest masterpieces, and two of the finest films to ever come out of Japan…and the world. Picking between the two is, for me, like apples and oranges, and entirely unnecessary; it mostly depends on which I’ve seen most recently. Having just finished up a third viewing of Sanshõ, the time seemed right for a long overdue review of one of my favorite movies from a director who, when at his best, is as masterful as any filmmaker, alive or dead. Sanshõ the Bailiff focuses on dual primary themes: a thorough condemning of medieval Japan’s slave trade, and the heartrending story of Zushiõ (Yoshiaki Hanayagi), and Anju (Kyõko Kagawa), which takes the center stage for much of the picture. Ironically, Mizoguchi was forced by his production studio to make this the film’s focal point—he passionately wanted Sanshõ (Eitarõ Shindõ), the brutal administer of the slave camp where Zushiõ and Anju are sold, to be at the story’s forefront. It’s a testament to Mizoguchi’s greatness that he was able to smoothly, if unhappily, adjust to his studio’s demands and put forth such a brilliant work.

Sanshõ the Bailiff begins with Zushiõ and Anju’s father, Masauji (Masao Shimizu)—the Governor of Tango—being banished from his post by his superior officer, a feudal warlord who has no patience for Masauji’s humanistic tendencies. This initial scene does much to shape Sanshõ the Bailiff’s trajectory. Firstly, it establishes the “noble father as a role model” angle that permeates throughout the movie: before being roughly escorted away by armed guards, Masauji tells his children that they’ll be nothing without compassion and selflessness. This worldview is heavily steeped in Japanese culture, and it emerges again and again throughout the film. Secondly, it sets in motion Zushiô and Anju’s tragic arc—with Masauji gone, their mother Tamaki (Kinuyo Tanaka) is forced to take the children to live with Masauji’s brother. After a few years of toiling in obscurity, they’re tricked by a devious priestess and sold into slavery: Tamaki is sent to Sado, and Zushiô & Anju to Sanshô’s estate. Mizoguchi films the excruciating separation on the beach with crystal compositions, and it’s not a coincidence that Sanshô the Bailiff’s most emotional moments occur by the water: at a time when canoes were among the most advanced forms of transportation available, “departures” from lakes and oceans symbolize a goodbye of undetermined lengths, and arrivals to the shores can be seen as miracles.

Zushiô and Anju are immediately put to work despite their extreme youth (when the eight-year old Anju is roughly thrust into the fields on her first day, a kindly middle-aged female slave memorably grumbles, ” she should be playing with dolls.”) The extent of Sanshô’s cruelty quickly becomes apparent: he brands a slave’s forehead with a red-hot poker for trying to run away, and later has a woman’s Achilles tendon slashed for the same reason. He relishes his position of power over the disadvantaged, and doesn’t have a single compassionate bone in his body. Fortunately for Zushiô and Anju, Sanshô’s son  Taro (Akitake Kôno) is much gentler than his father, and grows fond of the children. He believes their story that they come from nobility, but advises them to bide their time until they’re old enough to have a chance at successfully escaping. By this point, Mizoguchi has begun to draw the distinction between good and evil, while making it clear that the lines can still blur. We see this as the children age: Zushiô comes close to giving in to the culture he’s been thrust into when he brands a potential escapee at Sanshô’s instructions. But when Anj, whose soul has not been at all corrupted, hears a recent arrival singing a song about her and her brother, one picked up in Sado, she knows her mother is alive, and it fills her and Zushió with newfound purpose. They pick their spots, and once Zushiô makes it out, with plenty of help, Sanshô the Bailiff shifts gears: the tragedy takes a different direction, and the film focuses on Zushiô being reborn, first by claiming his father’s old job as Governor of Tango, and then sacrificing that power by overstepping it, imposing his will on the private sector, and, with support for his noble aims, freeing all of Sanshô’s slaves. In this sense, Sanshô the Bailiff can also be viewed through the prism of Government’s reach, and what it should and should not be allowed to interfere with. Obviously, the history of our country’s slave trade draws a sharp parallel.

One of Sanshô the Bailiff’s strongest traits is the fluidity of narrative, and the accompanying lyrical cinematography. Every sequence develops gracefully, every character evolves and ends true to their ideals that Mizoguchi so poetically develops early on. Zushiô ultimately lives by his father’s teachings, and feels deeply stained by his role in the branding. Sanshô, the embodiment of cruelty until the end, never repents or recognizes the errors of his ways: the tight compositions in his lair emphasize his closed-minded mentality. And Tamaki, alone in Sado for so many years, never loses hope that her children will have managed to persevere: our final encounter with her near the film’s conclusion is so beautiful and so deserved, it could make a rock weep. There’s nary a flaw in the entirety of Sanshô the Bailiff: top-notch performances, subtle sound editing, and expert pacing are present for its entirety. A richly layered masterpiece, Sanshô the Bailiff deserves a spot near the highest pantheon of world cinema.

98/100