Commercially unavailable for a long time, Nicholas Ray’s wildly entertaining Johnny Guitar is now showing as part of a Ray retrospective at Film Forum in Manhattan, which should mean a long-overdue DVD release in the near future. And that’s great news for Ray fans—with its powerful women and many deaths, Johnny Guitar carves out a unique niche in an era dominated by tame, male-centric pictures. Like some of the great American films of the 50′s, Johnny Guitar breaks through a mold.
Ray loves hot-blooded protagonists with feverish tempers: Dixon Steele (Humphrey Bogart) in In a Lonely Place famously beat a reckless driver to a bloody pulp, among other violent transgressions (this, despite being innocent of the crimes he was accused of). Here, we have Johnny Logan, AKA Johnny Guitar (Sterling Hayden), a former gunslinger who’s traded in the pistols for a guitar at the behest of Vienna (Joan Crawford), a former flame who’s opened up a saloon & casino just outside a small town on the Arizona frontier in a patch where the railroad is scheduled to be built. Hired to provide music for the customers, Johnny quickly finds himself embroiled in a dispute between Vienna and multiple town leaders, including Emma Small (Mercedes McCambridge) and McIvers (Ward Bond), who want Vienna to close down her joint in the name of eliminating the competition. When Vienna refuses to back down, a battle for pride, dignity, and, of course, money begins, with Johnny by her side and the loyalties of The Dancin’ Kid (Scott Brady) torn between a loathing for this cocky stranger and his love for Vienna.
In a first-rate performance, Crawford imbues Vienna with an unyielding strength that’s unusual for the period; only her dark lipstick distinguishes her from any soot-covered, whiskey-drinkin’ Western cowboy. Emma isn’t any more “ladylike,” as she’s thoroughly determined to pin any and all transgressions on Vienna, her mortal enemy. While love certainly plays a part in their enmities (Emma’s loathing for Vienna stems from the Dancin’ Kid’s infatuation with her rival), it never supersedes their identity as powerful, independent female leaders. Ray is entirely aware of the unusual nature of his approach, a point made clear when one of the members of Emma’s crew comments that Vienna is more of a man than he is. By shoving conventional structure out the door, Ray demands that his voice be heard.
Despite the film’s title, Hayden isn’t really given a ton to do (though he’s great in the role). Johnny partakes in a few intense moments—such as when we first learn he can handle a gun as well as a musical instrument, and during a daring rescue attempt in Johnny Guitar‘s latter stages—but he mostly lingers in the background, putting in his two cents when asked and never backing down from adversity while rarely initiating conflict himself. This is the women’s show, as Ray makes clear with his compositions: Vienna is front and center in almost every shot, with her friends standing behind her. That friends and foes both perish by the end is of little consequence to Ray’s overarching message—Vienna’s independence and dignity survive, in life and death.
81/100
W.S. Van Dyke’s After the Thin Man is the rare sequel that actually improves on the original (1934′s The Thin Man), and the primary reason can be found in the story’s energy. The original manages to be a breezy, enjoyable flick—despite several soft spots—due almost entirely to the outstanding chemistry between leads William Powell (as witty detective Nick Charles) and Myrna Loy (as Nick’s smarmy-and-cute-as-a-button wife Nora). Their banter feels entirely natural, as if they’re truly, madly in love: the mushy stuff is always accompanied by a, “my husband snores” sort of moment that disarms the crowd, both on and off screen. They’re rich and well-coiffed, drink like fish, vacation constantly, sleep until whenever they like, and solve mysteries if they so desire. Nora always has a snappy retort for Nick’s wisecracks, and with their adorable and clever dog Asta in tow, they’re simply delightful to observe. What’s not to love? In fact, they’re so convincing that the Hays Code-inspired separate beds in their quarters comes across as laughably dated now!
As charming as its headliners are, The Thin Man is brought down to the “merely solid” level by its flimsy narrative. The plot lacks bite from the beginning, and as such, we’re left to mostly enjoy occasional twists and Nick, Nora and Asta’s on-screen rapport, as well as a strong script from a dialogue perspective (it’s less impressive when it comes to keeping the action moving fluidly). Compounding the problem is the absence of any strong secondary characters. Oh, they pop in and out quite frequently, but few are memorable enough to keep the audience’s attention on any substantive level. While The Thin Man is still pretty entertaining, it’s easily lost in the shuffle of similar genre pieces of the era.
After the Thin Man, by contrast, boasts two things that the original lacks—a much more engaging caper, and a first-rate performance by a shockingly young Jimmy Stewart, who provides the juice that The Thin Man sorely needed when Powell and Loy aren’t dominating the screen. While a standard whodunnit at its core, After The Thin Man is sleek and quick-paced enough to easily surpass your run-of-the-mill murder mystery. Nick and Nora are fun as ever, but there’s much more meat on the bone here: the victim, a nonchalant playboy who’s emotionally moved past his wife and on to the next conquest, has a strong identity that leads the viewer to focus on picking up clues on motive and opportunity. And while there’s a similar motley crew of suspects in both Thin Man films, there’s a sharpness in the way Van Dyke presents them in After the Thin Man that its predecessor is missing.
Van Dyke shows a penchant for ending his yarns with a sly dinner gathering for all the possible killers