Exceptionally hard to track down until its recent appearance on Netflix Instant, Norma Taurog’s Skippy (based on a popular comic strip of the era) is notable for claiming the fourth ever Best Director Oscar back in 1931. That seems like a bit of stretch, but after the first 10 minutes, I expected my response to be much harsher: Skippy‘s first section is cloying, dated in the worst possible way, and awkwardly written. Thankfully, it smooths itself out when Skippy (Jackie Cooper)—the son of wealthy local health supervisor Dr. Skinner (Willard Robinson)—meets Sooky (Robert Coogan), a dirt-poor boy from the “other side of the tracks” (literally and figuratively: he lives in Shantytown). Sooky wants nothing more than three dollars to get his stray dog a proper license, and the kind-hearted-if-mischievous Skippy quickly becomes attached to his new friend and does what he can to help, including sacrificing his dreams of a new bicycle. Unfortunately, Dr. Skinner believes Shantytown should be shut down for sanitary reasons, and Skippy begins to learn that the idealistic way he looks at life isn’t compatible with either adulthood or his family. Skippy is very effective at showing the world through a child’s eyes: issues like class divides, deep pockets and public perceptions are meaningless. All that matters is your friends, no matter where they’re from, and doing the right thing without viewing it through a wider scope. Inasmuch as it’s a good teaching tool, Skippy has some traces of Capra’s masterpiece It’s a Wonderful Life, though it’s nowhere near as rich a film, nor as expertly executed: Skippy‘s ending, while heartwarming, is difficult to buy, and the aforementioned hokum does pop up again from time to time. All in all, though, Skippy slowly won me over as it progressed, and at just 86 minutes, it’s nicely paced and a worthy viewing, both from a historical and a charming perspective. There’s also a very sad moment midway through that captures both the resilience and surviving emotional depth of young children in a tender, believable way, and Cooper’s superb performance in the title role also shouldn’t be overlooked.

64/100

My first feature-length W.C. Fields film was a pleasant surprise (I’d been bored silly by his short The Dentist), even if It’s a Gift wasn’t really a laugh-out-loud experience for me. In Fields’ Harold Bissonette, we have a man who just wants to break free from his stuffy, run-of-the-mill, existence and follow his dreams (i.e. buying an orange grove) for once in his life, and here he is getting lambasted by all forces imagineable—his wife Amelia (Kathleen Howard), whose indignant facial expressions recall Mary Boland’s Effie Floud in Ruggles of Red Gap; random strangers; acquaintances (such as the little boy who spills molasses all over the floor of Harold’s shop), and even inanimate objects such as a porch bench and his car! It’s impossible not to root for the resolute Fields as he gives common wisdom the finger,  and bumbles & stumbles towards fulfilling his fantasy. Towards the end, when it looks like Harold’s finally going to have some luck go his way, you’re just sure he’ll find some way to blow it, but you hope & pray that he doesn’t…and that’s the sign of an endearing protagonist! As mentioned, I didn’t actually guffaw much at It’s a Gift, but your mileage may vary: I guess I’m more of a Chaplin humor sort of fellow. Still, there’s plenty to enjoy here, and little to dislike.

68/100

A rare film from a mostly unknown director—Sadao Yamanaka directed 20 films, and all but three are presumed completely lost—Humanity and Paper Balloons is a somber, moving work, one that hints at a sublime understanding of poverty, pride, and what shame & misery can lead to. Set in a dirt-poor village where most of the country lives day-to-day, aside from a select few merchants who get carted around, the tragic Humanity and Paper Balloons focuses on the masterless samurai Matajuro Unno (Chojuro Kawarasaki) and the struggling barber Shinza (Kan’emon Nakamura), both lonely men fighting to keep their difficult life from consuming them. Unno’s a quiet, noble man who wants nothing more than to provide for his wife—who makes paper balloons at home—but his requests for help are repeatedly shunned by a local merchant who was once helped out by Unno’s father, and now has nothing but contempt for the peasants beneath him. Slowly, Unno’s drinking problem begins to overpower his self-worth. Meanwhile, Shinza, who’s a bit more boisterous and difficult to read, eventually resorts to kidnapping in an attempt to extract some revenge upon the rich who exploit their power…but his goal is to earn back some dignity, not the money that’s thrust at him. Yamanaka’s depiction of classes, and how the poor are hamstrung by a complete lack of opportunities—even a business loan of 2 ryo is rejected due to insufficient collateral—is quiet and impressive: only a first half that somewhat meanders keeps the film from earning a higher rating. Humanity and Paper Balloons is bookended by suicides, indicative of a world where the disparities in quality of living breeds a helplessness that has no end in sight.

69/100

Having been absolutely blown away by Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows (1955) and Imitation of Life (1959), I was really eager to give Written on the Wind a second look (and first in a very long time), given that many consider it to be his very finest work. It’s certainly his most visually sumptuous that I’ve seen, with extraordinarily bright color schemes mirroring the ever-changing moods of its leads: an aging but still sexy Lauren Bacall as Lucy Moore Hadley, Robert Stack (Unsolved Mysteries!) as the alcoholic-and-possibly-sterile womanizer-turned-doting-husband Kyle Hadley, and Rock Hudson as Mitch Wayne, the loyal friend and business partner who can never quite nudge his way into prominence or the spotlight. Where it can’t measure up to the previous two works is emotionally: those were powerhouses, tearing me to shreds with their social commentary and unforgettable characters. The melodrama is laid on just right. In Written on the Wind, it’s almost too much, like Sirk couldn’t help himself: as such, while it’s still touching at times and boasts plenty of impressive scenes, it’s also occasionally so over-the-top as to inspire giggles, and while those moments aren’t that prevalent, they do keep this sweeping tragedy from consistently yanking us into the trio’s passionate worlds. Far more strengths than weaknesses, but I can’t put it close to his aforementioned twin masterpieces. Next up on the Sirk agenda: some rare goodies from the 40′s and 50′s!

67/100

Far and away the worst of George A. Romero’s horror six-pack, Survival of the Dead plays like a campy, pseudo-Western mocking of the esteemed director’s previous work. I’ll give Romero enough credit to buy that the terrible script—full of unintentional (intentional?) laughs—and abysmal acting chock-full of stilted deliveries are all part of some vague attempt at self-deprecation, but the problem here is that Survival of the Dead wants to have its cake and eat it too. There’s some vague attempts at social commentary, but it feels terribly recycled, treading the same ground of the vastly superior Day of the Dead (1985)—i.e., can the living dead be taught/trained to think and act at all consciously? This is the first entry of the franchise (I’ve liked-to-loved the previous five) that really feels like Romero’s run out of ideas: it’s as if he decided that poking fun at his own style—the trademark bright-red guts being pulled out by zombie teeth, the hodge-podge of characters, here ranging from a lesbian commando to identical twin Irish sisters—was the only way to milk a bit more life out of the series, but wasn’t willing to go the whole nine yards and make Survival of the Dead a balls-to-the-wall satire, like Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive. As such, Survival of the Dead scores points only on the bad movie scale. The interactions and soliloquies are so wretched, they should evoke howls-a-plenty, and the homages to classic Westerns—two heads of rival island families, loyal underlings in tow, battling for respect and the top spot, complete with an uproarious closing shot of Patrick O’Flynn (Kenneth Welsh) and Seamus Muldoon (Richard Fitzpatrick) drawing empty guns, framed against the moon— is respectful, but ultimately little more than corny. Sad as it is to say, Survival of the Dead is closer to the cult classic The Room than Night of the Living Dead, best used as late night, drinking game fodder (O’Flynn handing a zombie a lit TNT stick should lead to multiple whiskey shots). I’ve got plenty of love for Romero, but the writing’s on the wall: it’s time for him to move on to something fresh, or hang up the cleats.

28/100

Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past should be considered a prototypical example of how to do noir the right way, full of all the necessary elements that define the genre—shadowy corners, double crossings aplenty, a luscious femme fatale, and, of course, murders. Set first in California, then Mexico, and then back to California, Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) is hired by mob leader Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas) to track down Whit’s missing bombshell lover Kathie (Jane Greer), along with $40,000.  Bailey tracks her down, only to be seduced by her allure, and they run away together. From there, an elaborate web of betrayals, lusts, self-evaluations, and trickery ensues. Like Hawks’ The Big Sleep (though nowhere near that complex), Out of the Past can sometimes leave you guessing who’s on what side, and that’s a good thing: the energy, dialogue, and twists-and-turns are all first-rate. Out of the Past is only 95 minutes long, but it packs enough intrigue and fiery encounters to fill two hours easily. That it’s so tight speaks volumes of Tourneur’s taut direction. Mitchum plays the sometimes-stoic, sometimes-cold, occasionally frantic Bailey to perfection, and Greer is absolutely delectable as Kathie, a woman whom you can count on for as long as as you’re what’s best for her that given moment. Douglas is superb when he’s on the screen, but his presence mostly lurks behind the scenes, hovering over every maneuver. The black-and-white photography is spot on. This one is not to be missed by lovers of the classics! It’s inches away from earning the masterpiece label, and may just get there the next time I pop it on.

88/100