Sand (1949)

It feels a bit peculiar to finally watch Sand, a film that I sought for two decades years before giving up on it some five years ago. As is often the case, good things happen when you stop trying so hard—a copy surfaced about a year ago in one of the places where such things occasionally surface. It’s surprising that this film was never released on VHS or DVD, and that it never aired TCM, AMC, or even Fox Movie Channel (given that it’s a 20th Century Fox product). Perhaps given the movie’s literary source there was some issue with the rights.

Regardless, Sand was a worthwhile nominee for 1949’s Best Color Cinematography and deserves to be seen. It was shot primarily among the high timber in Colorado’s spectacular San Juan National Forest. A pair of journeyman filmmakers, cameraman Charles Clark (who was vastly experienced but didn’t do many Westerns) and director Louis King (who did plenty), make the most of the scenery in order to compensate for an otherwise meager budget and brisk schedule. The Oscar nomination is ample proof that their efforts were worthwhile.

Aside from all that, Sand is a good B movie. It’s the sort of thing that, had anyone actually seen it, would be on a bunch of most-loved lists. The cast is led by one of my film noir favorites, Mark Stevens, as charismatic and underrated as ever. I wrote a lot about him here. The love interest / narrator is Coleen Gray, a much bigger star than Stevens and herself a noir icon. Western stalwart Rory Calhoun goes along for the ride. One of the film’s highlights is a well-staged brouhaha between him and Stevens. The human cast plays third fiddle here, following the scenery and the horse.

Sand is a straight adventure yarn with a simple plot. Rodeo showman Stevens loses his prize horse, Jubilee, in a fiery train wreck, and spends the balance of the picture searching for him. In the meantime, Jubilee gets into plenty of mischief on his own—there’s some Jack London at work here. King doesn’t ask much of his cast, instead focusing his efforts on making a pretty picture buoyed by stellar animal action sequences. One in particular, where Jubilee goes hoof to hoof with another horse while a hungry mountain lion looks on, is especially well done.

This was targeted less at Western fans than at tween girls who still dug horses. If the audience saw the older Stevens as a father figure and Calhoun as a love interest, all the better. I’d love to see a high-quality print of this, but, after all these years, I feel grateful to have seen it at all.

Sand (1949) 

Directed by Louis King 

Starring Mark Stevens, Coleen Gray, and Rory Calhoun 

Released by 20th Century Fox 

Running time: 78 minutes 

Availability: Unavailable. 

Grade: B+

8.5.5

The Eddie Duchin Story (1956)

Stephen King gave an interview once where he was foolishly challenged with a question about literary history. I don’t know why, but journalists always think they can show up popular authors by exposing them on literature knowledge — this one oddly asked the former English teacher if he had ever “read the classics.” It was like some poor sap trying to heckle Don Rickles. King, like nearly every other best-seller out there, not only knows his business but is usually slicker than the person asking the questions. I’ve always loved his glib response, which went something like: “I don’t know anything about William Faulkner, but I’ve read everything Dean Koontz ever wrote.”

I recently had a similar moment chatting on a Facebook message board when someone accused me of not knowing anything about “film” because I’m not a David Lynch fan. For example: “If you knew anything about surrealism you might begin to understand and appreciate Lynch’s films.” Instead of taking the easy way out, as Stephen King could have done, and sharing that in real life I’m in the chair of a university department of art and art history, I took a page out of King’s book and shot back, “I may not know anything about surrealism, but I’ve seen every picture Tyrone Power ever made.”

That was almost true — I had somehow missed this one; which you can file neatly in the forgotten gems category. Like most other musical biopics, Columbia’s 1956 film The Eddie Duchin Story relates the life events of yet another mid-century musical personality. Aside from a relatively early Kim Novak performance there’s little about the film that would really pull in contemporary audiences, which is a shame. After all, Duchin’s name is all but forgotten these days — as he wasn’t a composer or lyricist none of his tunes became standards, and his untimely death in 1951 didn’t contribute to his longevity. The Eddie Duchin Story isn’t an MGM picture either — coming instead from Harry Cohn and major-minor Columbia, not a studio well known for musicals that didn’t feature Rita Hayworth. Still though, stars and studios aside Duchin’s story is great film fodder; and the resulting movie is a fine romance and a tear-jerker of the first order.

Tyrone Power and Kim Novak are a strange match — a generation apart, Power exists in the mind as a primarily a black and white film actor while Novak is pure Technicolor. He on the tail end of a robust career and she at the beginning of one too short. Opinions differ concerning Novak’s strengths and weaknesses, but who doesn’t wish she made more films? This one cleverly handles the delicate issue of the billing: Power above Novak, same size type on the printed materials; but Novak first in the film’s titles, with Power getting a special “Starring Tyrone Power as Eddie Duchin” screen to himself just after director George Sidney’s. Although Power was nearly twenty years Novak’s senior, her character was actually supposed to be a little older than his. The film tries to split the difference, clumsily hiding Power’s age in the early scenes, and making Kim look a bit dowdier than necessary.

Power was 41 when this was made, so it seems a bit strange that he would be cast in the first place, however all concerns evaporate when he sits down at the piano. Duchin’s trademark as a pianist was the speed and complexity of his fingering, and Power is certainly up to the challenge. Sidney and cameraman Harry Stradling (he of 14 Oscar nominations, Eddy Duchin included — and 2 wins) go out of their way to ensure the viewer knows that the hands on the keyboard belong to the star — and if Power is somehow faking Duchin’s virtuosity then he deserved an award for it. All of the musical scenes are well done, and any inclination viewers might want to hit the fast-forward button during the musical bits (Can anyone say Funny Lady?) is lost here. The film is beautifully photographed and makes New York City look stunning. A pseudo-montage that takes place when Power and Novak are courting is particularly beautiful, and takes full advantage of Novak’s spectacular rapport with the camera.

Surprisingly, Novak’s part is short given her billing; and there’s a great deal more to the story than has been mentioned here. As I wrote earlier this is both a romantic film and a tear-jerker, with the emotional scenes coming on heavy as the film approaches the two hour mark. There’s one moment in particular — a small one — where a uniformed Power happens upon a burnt up piano in a wrecked bar on Mindanao. It’s a brief but important scene, and certain to bring a smile to your face — for me it made the picture. In the end, this is a movie about more than just those loved and lost. It’s concerned greatly with familial relationships and the ties that bind fathers to their sons. It looks good, it sounds good, and it entertains. What’s not to like?

The Eddie Duchin Story (1956)

Grade: B

Directed by George Sidney
Released by Columbia Pictures
Starring Tyrone Power, Kim Novak, and James Whitmore
Running time: 121 minutes
Availability: DVD, Netflix

A Majority of One (1961)

My DVR recorded the hard to find 1961 film A Majority of One tonight on TCM, and I’m glad I won’t have to watch it — I was able to get a Warner Archive DVD copy via interlibrary loan earlier in the week and view it that way instead. This was my first experience with an “on demand” disc, and I found myself in agreement with the vast majority of people who champion the service. The transfer was crystal clear and the disc was pleasantly void of the innumerable obstacle screens that ruin most commercial DVDs. If free interlibrary loan wasn’t a perk of my teaching position I wouldn’t hesitate to purchase discs from this line.

There are two sticking points regarding A Majority of One that will dominate most discussions of the film and need to be gotten out of the way before any worthwhile assessment of the picture can happen. First is the casting of a Caucasian in the male lead. That master of disguises, Alec Guinness, plays Mr. Asano, a Japanese business magnate whose business dealings have attracted the attention of the US government. Realize going in that on a superficial level this is a romantic comedy about a widow and a widower from different cultures finding love in their golden years, but more importantly it’s about the healing of Japanese and American cultures in the wake of the war, interracial marriage and subsequent bigotry, with a little generational friction thrown in for good measure. My take on the casting of Guinness is this: Hollywood has always been in the money-making business, and I’m choosing to applaud them for broaching the subject in an A-list feature film, even if the producers elected not to cast an Asian performer in the male lead. If the film doesn’t get made without Guinness in the featured role, then I’m happy to accept it under those circumstances rather than not at all, knowing that Hollywood would eventually come around, one baby step at a time — though there’s really no reason why a Japanese actor couldn’t have been cast, other than the argument that Guinness’s star power would sell more tickets. One could argue that since the earlier Broadway production of the play (a big hit at 556 performances and multiple Tony nominations) starred Cedric Hardwicke in the role of Asano the precedent was already in place, but on the other hand James Shigeta and a primarily Asian cast was starring in Flower Drum Song at the same time over at Universal. And while I wince at Guinness’s performance a little (his idea of playing Japanese translates to a tilted back head and squinty eyes. He never once looks right.), the attempt at Japanese never strays into caricature — a flaw that greatly mars 1961’s most well-remembered film: Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

The second sticking point is A Majority of One’s rather gaudy running time of two-and-a-half hours. Considering the film is essentially comedic, with a sprinkling of dramatic moments that anticipate the flavor of many films from the 1980s, it’s difficult to stay engaged and light in heart for 150 minutes of movie. Although this is understandable when we realize the director / producer was Mervyn LeRoy, who could make a long picture as well as a short one, the exhibition cut of A Majority of One could have easily gone back to the cutting room and lost fifteen minutes of unnecessary footage. Nevertheless, there’s enough good stuff here that anyone considering the viewing film should plow ahead without reservation.

At the top of the heap of all that good stuff is the extraordinary Rosalind Russell, who stars as Mrs. Jacoby, the Jewish mother from Brooklyn who comes to adore her new Japanese friend, despite having lost her only son in the Pacific war. Russell, one of the most extraordinary — and despite the great deal of acclaim she enjoyed, underrated — actresses of her era, simply shines here. She’s the glue that holds this long picture together. Her chemistry and interactions with her each and every one of her fellow performers is different in character yet perfect in tone. Her performance is nuanced by confidence, timing, and restraint — and her accent would make Meryl Streep proud. Despite the fact that Russell, even at 54, was busy juggling film, TV, and theatrical projects, it’s clear that she gave herself away to this one. It’s as good a performance as you’ll find in any film from the period, yet one that despite its brilliance was snubbed by Oscar — A Majority of One’s sole nomination came in the Color Cinematography category. Regardless of Oscar’s mild drubbing of Russell (four nominations, zero wins. Hersholt Humanitarian Award in 1973, three years before her death.), the Globes simply adored her. She would win Best Actress Musical/Comedy for this film, and then again the next year for her work in LeRoy’s next project, Gypsy. She had previously won in the Musical/Comedy category in 1958 for her signature performance in Auntie Mame, and in the Best Motion Picture Actress category (the Academy equivalent) in 1947 and 1948 for Sister Kenny and Mourning Becomes Electra, respectively. If you can catch Roz as a nurse in Kenny on TCM do so, but I’m on the record with Electra as one of the strangest classic period films out there — it isn’t for everyone and it isn’t the Roz most people know and love. There are many victims of Oscar snubbings, but with five Golden Globes and no Oscars, Russell has to be at the top of the list.

Performances aside, the film’s themes of forgiveness in the wake of the war and of interracial love may date it with younger viewers, but the script is rich enough to remain interesting and the dialog certainly entertains. Granted the film is overlong, there’s enough here to warrant a viewing. My one qualm: Mrs. Jacoby warms to Mr. Asano far too quickly — through just a single scene early in the picture — and LeRoy misses the opportunity for dramatic fireworks between his two stars, especially when both were as adept with drama as they were with comedy. The scene in which the pair meet on the deck of an ocean liner deftly blends dramatic tension with physical comedy — the movie sells out for affability when a great deal more character development was possible.

A Majority of One (1961)

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy

Starring Rosalind Russell, Alec Guinness, and Ray Danton

Released by Warner Brothers

Running time: 150 minutes

Availability: Warner Brothers Archive DVD, TCM.

Arabian Nights (1942)

Arabian Nights is a first-rate Saturday afternoon matinee released in 1942 by Universal. It’s one of the many recent classic DVD releases that Netflix has not chosen to add to their library. I’ve had it in my queue since the DVD debuted in 2007, and I finally gave up and requested a copy via interlibrary loan. The exclusion by Netflix is particularly disappointing considering that this is a relevant film that earned an impressive four 1942 Academy Award nominations. I’ll be the first to admit that Oscar nods don’t guarantee quality and rentals, but

Arabian Nights is a safe bet. It has top production values, including fantastic costumes and some of the most vivid Technicolor photography you’ll ever see — accentuated by the pristine DVD transfer. This is all especially surprising considering the film was made at Universal; and falls outside of the constantly struggling studio’s big four proven cornerstones: horror, Deanna Durbin, Sherlock Holmes, and Abbott and Costello. The story of how this came about is an interesting one.

Maverick producer Walter Wanger had just been released from a long-term contract with United Artists before coming to Universal in 1941. Wanger was a proven commodity in Hollywood, and his deal with UA had been a rich one that offered the filmmaker a great deal of latitude in the production of prestige products. Under the deal Wanger developed Algiers with Charles Boyer and the John Ford / John Wayne classic (6 Oscar nominations) The Long Voyage Home. The relationship with UA went sour after a few box office disappointments, including (surprisingly) Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent, which led Wanger to shop his in-development projects around Hollywood — Universal took the bait. Wanger signed on to produce films for Universal on a picture-by-picture basis, the first of which was Arabian Nights. The film would be Universal's first three-color Technicolor production, and the studio was willing to risk the colossal sum (for them) of $900,000 on the budget. Although Wanger himself dismissed the film as merely an exercise in “tits and sand,” the movie paid big dividends ($4,000,000 gross) for all involved and cemented the producer-studio relationship for the next few years and six more pictures.*

The business model at Universal, more than any other studio, relied on turning successful projects into drums that could be beaten again and again, until the public grew tired of the tune. Yet during the war audiences were hungry for the most lavish and exotic escapist fare possible, and the stars of Arabian Nights caught the public interest at exactly the right moment. Jon Hall, Maria Montez, and Jungle Book star Sabu would appear together regularly in a succession of lower-and-lower budgeted features that nevertheless raked in the wartime dollars for the studio. Sabu, the unlikely teen superstar, would receive top billing in most of the features, with Hall second and Montez third. Hall was the good-looking star of numerous B projects at Universal, he enjoyed modest success in Hollywood but never achieved the big time. Much the same can be said of Montez, though in her case it’s surprising. She was truly a stunning woman — bearing a vague resemblance to Gloria Grahame, only with a better figure — it’s difficult to take your eyes off her.

On a morbid note, each of the film’s three stars died tragically: Hall, wrecked with cancer, shot himself at 64, while Sabu died of a heart attack at age 39, and Montez drowned (due to a heart attack) in her Paris bathtub at only 34.

Arabian Nights is a winner. It’s easy to see why wartime audiences responded so well — the film couldn't get much lighter. We expect these things to be special-effects bonanzas, but there’s not much too see here beyond a parade of girls and marvelous costumes. All the genies have been replaced with light comedy, and supporting characters merely named Sinbad (Shemp Howard!) and Aladdin will have to placate those looking for faithful literary adaption.

* Thanks to Thomas Schatz and his wonderfully instructive book, The Genius of the System for the assist on the facts and figures.

Arabian Nights (1942)

Directed by John Rawlins

Starring Sabu, Jon Hall, Maria Montez

Released by Universal Studios

Running time: 93 minutes

Availability: DVD, but no Netflix.

When Worlds Collide (1951)

Run for your lives! Oh wait, that won't work. In the 1951 sci-fi classic When Worlds Collide, a vicious one-two punch in the form of Bellus and Zyra, a rogue star and orbiting planet are hurtling through space directly for the planet earth. Our hero, research scientist Dr. Hendron (Larry Keating) confirms the inevitability of the collision with a year to spare, but is mocked by the newly formed United Nations General Assembly and tossed out on his ear. By the time the rest of the world finally comes to grips with the truth of the situation, it's too late to do anything about it — too late, that is, for everyone except Dr. Hendron and his circle, who have endeavored to build a futuristic Noah's Ark in the form of a gigantic sleek silver rocket. Their plan is to launch at just the last second, and hopefully land and begin civilization anew on Zyra, the small, earth-like (hopefully) planet. A scant forty-four people can be saved, and much of the film's drama concerns preparation for the cataclysm and the selection of the lucky few.

Despite a short running time, there's plenty to hold our attention (it's actually too bad this couldn't have gone on for another twenty minutes or so — there are plenty of threads that could have been woven into a more detailed fabric.) There's a love triangle involving 50s honey Barbara Rush, the ship's M.D., and her reluctant pilot; as well as a great deal of moral and ethical tension generated by the wheelchair-bound gajillionaire who's paying for the whole thing — in exchange for one of the coveted seats.

One of the cleverest plot twists has Zyra passing close enough to the Earth to disrupt the tides and flood all coastal cities nineteen days in advance of the fiery collision with Bellus. It adds a moment of real suspense and worthwhile special effects to the middle of the film, and as an added bonus it solves the problem of pissed-off, gun-toting mob of rejects making a run on the rocket during the eleventh hour — the launch site is on a mountain top, and Zyra has flooded all low-lying territories. The effects are pretty darn good, all the more so because this was shot in very vivid technicolor — good enough to nab the effects Academy Award (not to mention a color cinematography nomination). Most of the tricks are done with miniatures, but they are impressive to say the least and will have you wondering if it isn't the real thing in a few of the cuts. There's an interesting flood sequence that anticipates the likewise Oscar-winning effects in The Rains of Ranchipur. There might be a few seconds of stock footage here and there, but who cares? This is great stuff.

Unfortunately this is 1950s America — no black folks allowed. Asians? Sorry. The script does vaguely reference similar rockets being built in other countries, but the notion contradicts the earlier idea that the initially sceptical would be unable to complete a ship in time. The new civilization on Zyra will be young, white, and good looking — and with cute puppies. The film makes a meager overture to civil unrest amongst the hundred of rocket-builders who don't get a space on the flight, but it takes a nod and a wink on the part of viewers to think the rocket would have ever gotten off the ground. Yet it does, and miraculously manages to set down on the surface of Zyra. The hatch opens to "the sweetest breath" one traveler ever took, and a cartoonish world of green fields, pink trees, snow, and a few rather Egyptian looking pyramids. It's a strange teaser for the film to end this way — if this was a contemporary picture we'd all shout, "Sequel!" The Zyran landscape obviously contains buildings, but we are left to wonder whether or not they contain living beings, friendly or otherwise. The idea of competing rocket projects, particularly those from other countries and other governments, makes the idea of a sequel very intriguing. Apparently George Pal wanted to do a follow-up along those lines, but it just never panned out. Nevertheless, this is a fun fifties sci-fi gem, with enough polish to please all viewers. Plus, it sports one honey of a poster.

When Worlds Collide (1951)

Directed by Rudolph Maté

Starring Barbara Rush, Richard Derr, Peter Hansen, Larry Keating, and John Hoyt

Released by Paramount Pictures

Running time: 82 minutes
Availability: Widely on DVD.

Joe (1970)

Here’s a film that careens wildly from one theme to the next, and can’t seem to make up its mind exactly what it wants to be, or to whom. Joe is about young junkies in love, the estrangement between generations in the late sixties, the tension between blue- and white-collar workers, the alienation of an unhappy urban existence, and the perils of vigilantism. Each theme is worth its own movie, yet Joe tries to deliver on all of them.

The story revolves around the relationship between a wealthy Manhattan father (Dennis Patrick) who accidentally murders his junky daughter’s (Susan Sarandon, in her film debut.) drug-pushing boyfriend and the man to whom he accidentally admits his crime. In the wake of the murder, adman Bill Compton wanders into a bar where he finds Joe Curran (Peter Boyle) at the next stool. Joe is one of those working-stiffs who thinks the world owes him a little something extra for his forty hours a week, and hippies, liberals and minorities are taking the country to hell in a hand basket. He pines for the good old days and rails blindly against everything from his own kids to those on welfare. Conventional wisdom suggests that Joe will devolve into a simple blackmail story (and maybe if this had been made in the eighties it would have), but it turns out that Joe thinks Bill has done the world a favor, and the two strike up an uneasy, and somewhat one-sided friendship.

As the title suggests, the movie is far more concerned with developing Peter Boyle’s character than Dennis Patrick’s. Although throughout the years many movies have explored the consequences of an accidental killing, this should have devoted more time to Patrick’s tight-laced executive. He proves the more interesting character of the two, and by far the less rooted in cliché: after all, Joe is a racist, right wing, gun collecting nut job — a citified redneck of the first order. He rants, raves, and boozes it up; and like every other working man in the movies he goes bowling each week. Although we don’t see him smack his wife around, he’s short as hell with her — and Boyle plays Joe as a ticking time bomb, which of course he turns out to be. Boyle was a gifted actor who does much with his part, but Patrick matches him scene for scene in the more difficult and far less showy role.

Director John G. Avildsen does fine with Norman Wexler’s Oscar nominated script, and the film boasts one good scene after the next. The best concerns a dinner party at Joe’s house. The strange circumstances of the friendship are briefly forgotten and the film becomes concerned with the culture clash between haughty Central park West and lowbrow Astoria, Queens. The men take a backseat while the wives (K Callan and Audrey Caire) steal the show. Curtains and Chinese food were never the source of such tension. This sort of thing has been done a million times over the years, but hardly ever so well. A later scene finds Joe and Bill searching the Village for Joe’s missing daughter. They fall in with some hippies for a culture clash of a different sort. In terms of plot development a lot happens here, but it’s worth watching for Avildsen’s ability to believably shepherd a scene through fast, smooth transitions from situation comedy, through sex, and ultimately, to violence — all the while connecting the transitions with believable dialogue.

The film’s climax is extremely silly and hard to swallow. Bit since Joe is so worthwhile I won’t spoil the ending — though the climax is of the sort that comes to the writer in a moment of inspiration and then requires the narrative to be contrived from that point backwards. In this case the machinations required to get us to the payoff just don’t work — the coincidences involved are worthy of Saving Private Ryan. Joe wants to be a morality story, but would have been a much more successful character study. It tries too hard to be too many things to too many people, and falls short in nearly every case. But it sure is a far out trip.

Joe (1970)

Grade: C

Directed by John G. Avildsen

Starring Peter Boyle, Dennis Patrick, and Susan Sarandon

Released by Cannon Productions

Running time: 107 minutes

Availability: DVD, Netflix

A Man Called Peter (1955)

Hollywood got religion in the years after the Second World War. Biblical epics, sword and sandal adventures, and religious biographies formed a sizable (and very profitable) part of the motion picture landscape for a decade-and-a-half following the allied victory. The mid-century fervor for religious pictures was the result of a confluence of numerous interrelated causes. Primary among these was the desire to project American society and culture as superior to that of the Soviets. If the commies were godless, then we needed to embrace religion in as many ways as possible — although the phrase “In God We Trust” had adorned US coins since the days just prior to the Civil War, it wasn’t added to paper currency until 1957; the phrase “Under God” was added to the Pledge of Allegiance during the Eisenhower years as well. There was also great pressure to conform to a Rockwellian model of the perfect community, a notion that included public displays of religiosity. It’s also fair to suggest that in the boom years following the war, as citizens embraced The American Dream of home, auto, and appliance ownership they also sought to compensate for their materialism by creating what has been described as a “veneer of piety.”

Such a narrowly defined utopia couldn’t last however — the pressure to conform was simply too great for a culture that at its core was still a diverse melting pot. By the late fifties and early sixties films began to question the values and the hypocrisy of the postwar decade, and cynicism became a thematic force in the movies — as witnessed in such films as The Sweet Smell of Success, Elmer Gantry, and The Manchurian Candidate. Yet 1955’s A Man Called Peter is about as sincere a movie as you’ll ever find; and being that it is contemporaneous rather than a period piece, it functions as a telling historical document as well as an entertaining biopic. It stars Richard Todd as Peter Marshall, a Scotsman called to service in his homeland, who nevertheless ends up serving in the United States. The film follows his rise through the clerical ranks from a small Georgia church, to ministering the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington DC, to becoming chaplain of the US Senate. Along the way he meets and marries Catherine (Jean Peters), and together they have a son. The film is surprisingly engrossing, with dramatic tension coming from multiple sources: his DC parishioner’s reluctance to accept him, his wife’s illness, and the Second World War. Todd and Peters are fine in their roles, the Oscar-nominated color cinematography is rich and vibrant, and Henry Koster’s direction is suits the material. If you are amenable to the subject and watch this as simple entertainment, you’re certain to enjoy it.

For my part, I was more fascinated by the telling attitudes projected by the film. It certainly sees itself as progressive — time and again throughout Marshall bucks the status quo in his sermons, to the chagrin of the old folks, and tries to create a church based on equality, open and welcoming to all … well, sort of. Early on he invites a few of the younger members of his Atlanta congregation, including Catherine, to speak at a “youth rally.” When things begin to unravel Catherine rises and offers an impassioned speech about what it means to be a young Christian woman. Her sermon would have been considered hip and unorthodox at the time, but seen through a contemporary lens is characterized by its effort to place women nowhere other than the home. A sort of equality to be sure, but a separate sort at best — and Catherine’s message to those girls who might want to do the same sorts of things that men do (like work) is problematic: Why bother? Women simply aren’t meant to do such things. Here’s a girl who attends an expensive Atlanta university in order to become a teacher (of course), but after she finds her husband her career ambitions are dropped and are never mentioned again as she takes on the role of wife and mother. A Man Called Peter seems to characterize co-education as little more than a very expensive matchmaking service. Certainly the movie wasn’t the only one to take such a stance, but only the most deluded would argue that a multitude of fifties women didn’t have or aspire to a professional life. 

It’s also troublesome that a film that tries to deliver a message of love and equality fails so miserably whenever the issue is race. Considering A Man Called Peter is set in Atlanta and Washington DC and would likely receive many southern bookings, it isn’t surprising that it is so drastically conservative, but that being the case, why have any black cast members at all? Instead there are many, and every single one of them is a servant. We aren’t discussing a film from the thirties or forties here either, but one in theaters at the same time as The Blackboard Jungle. To cast blacks as only servants in a film such as this represents conscious pandering on behalf of 20th Century Fox to the racist attitudes of the country (and theater chain owners) at the time. It greatly mars a film in which the main character delivers a lengthy sermon about hypocrisy. Despite these flaws, there’s still much to like in this sincere film, the trick is to watch it with some sense of removal. And for those who don’t like it, A Man Called Peter yet offers a glimpse at a fascinating moment in our history.

A Man Called Peter (1955)

Grade: C+

Directed by Henry Koster

Starring Richard Todd and Jean Peters

Released by 20th Century Fox

Running time: 119 minutes

Availabilty: DVD, Netflix Instant Watch.

With Byrd at the South Pole (1930)

Here's a great film for Independence Day, one that celebrates the American spirit and the American Century — not to mention the most famous son of my own hometown, Winchester, Virginia. With Byrd at the South Pole is one of the earliest and most captivating film documentaries. A deserving Academy Award winner for Best Cinematography, the film chronicles in stark realitytheAntarctic expedition that led to Byrd's famous flight over the south pole.

Richard Byrd seems to be one of the forgotten men of the first half of the twentieth century, possibly overshadowed by his contemporary, and sometimes rival, Charles Lindbergh. Byrd was one of the men who wanted badly to win the $25,000 Orteig Prize for being the first to complete the New York - Paris flight, but Lindbergh captured the award just ahead of him. Byrd would make the crossing a mere four weeks later, but was obliged to ditch his craft in Normandy when Paris was unapproachable due to fog. Yet Byrd was no stranger to the limelightin the twenties and thirties, and enjoyed the life of a national hero. He retired from naval life with the rank of rear admiral, and during the course of his lifetime was awarded with countless citations, including the Navy Cross, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Congressional Medal of Honor.

The film opens with a somewhat awkward sound introduction featuring the explorer / adventurer himself addressing the viewer. Clad in his white naval dress uniform, Byrd primarily offers thanks a brief explanation of his motivations,all the while looking sheepishly away from the camera — as if reading cue cards. The film then changes gears for the bulk of its duration, into a silent affair with classic titles cards. Although With Byrd at the South Pole was made at exactly the time studios were heavily engaged with the transition into talking pictures, lugging sound equipment into the wasteland of the film's location would have been impossible even a decade later.

We are shown the expedition from beginning to end, from the opening shots of the heavily laden ships leaving New York Harbor to their journey south, eventually to break through the ice pack and make harbor on the barren plateau of Antarctica. We see the dozens of adventurers carve a base camp — known as Little America — out of the frozen landscape; build shelters for the three carefully assembled aircraft, the largest of which is fated to make the flight over the pole; store the seemingly unending supply of rations and equipment, and build friendships with the many Huskies brought to pull sleds and equipment across the expanses ice. In fact, one of the movie's more poignant moments comes when one of the older sled dogs becomes unableto shoulder his load or protect himself from the sub-zero temperatures any longer. We are also greeted by the wildlife of the region, as penguins and seals curiously explore Little America, and pods of whales startle the surface of the ice in search of breathing room. Weare treated to blizzards, gales, and unceasing monotony — including a single night that lasts more than four months.

The greatness of the film is in its camera work. That the work of the two Paramount Studios "ace" cameramen would win the Oscar for their work must have been a foregone conclusion. Although the finished picture runs a mere eighty minutes, over thirty miles of footage was generated over the course of the two-year expedition — and the professional Hollywood filmmakers involved certainly knew their stuff. The juxtaposition of static shots, aerials, even handhelds, combinedwith the inherent drama of the situation, makes for a rewarding film experience as exciting and contemporary as any studio production.

Sound returns for the film's final, climactic sequence, as Byrd and his fellows make their flight over the pole. A professional narrator speaks over spectacular aerial shots as the men back at Little America — and the world at large — wait for Byrd to complete his task. Although the events of the film occurred more than eighty years ago, I was nonetheless on the edge of my seat as the film came to aclose.

This is a must for anyone interested in documentary films, as well as the Academy Awards. Having grown up in the same town as Byrd, his story is remarkably absent from the public memory — undoubtedly pushed aside by our town's somehow even more iconic daughter, Patsy Cline. In a way it's too bad,the example of Byrd's adventurous, quintessentially American spirit is missed.

With Byrd at the South Pole (1930)

Grade: B-

No director credited

Released by Paramount Pictures

Running time: 82 minutes

Availability: DVD, Netflix.

One Eyed Jacks (1961)

Marlon Brando takes his one and only turn in the director’s chair with uninspiring results in the 1961 Western character study One Eyed Jacks. Not surprisingly, he stars in the film  as well, once again opposite Karl Malden. The two actors play a pair of gringo bandits running amuck somewhere in Sonora. They knock over one bank too many before being trapped by the Mexican rurales atop a dusty, wind-swept ridge. A shoeless Malden flees upon their only horse in an effort to secure fresh mounts, but instead high tails it with the loot and leaves Brando to suffer a five-year prison sentence. This is quite a long film at two hours and twenty minutes, yet the action described above takes place in the first few scenes. The remaining two hours cover events following Brando’s escape from prison — how he searches for Malden in hopes of revenge, to eventually find him employed as a sheriff in some idyllic town on the California peninsula.

One Eyed Jacks is an overlong film that suffers greatly from having an auspicious beginning that the rest of the film doesn’t live up to. It’s difficult to care very much about this cast of characters — something Brando seemed to realize. He repeatedly goes out of his way to show himself doing one good deed or another (which usually means protecting a girl from some whisky-sodden stumblebum) in an effort to win viewers over, but in the end we are just left with the awkwardness of trying to accept his brooding, mumbling, needs-to-break-free screen persona in the wide open spaces of the west — he just doesn’t fit. The are a half-dozen subplots going on, each a well-worn cliché: Brando allies himself with some banditos who turn out to be much worse than he realized, he falls in love with Malden’s beautiful Mexican stepdaughter, he busts out of jail, narrowly dodges a hanging, and so forth. The film’s two brightest spots come from its cast, in the form of Katy Jurado and Slim Pickens. Jurado plays Malden’s wife, and she offers a welcome sense of calmness and assured professionalism in an otherwise clumsy film. Pickens is just, well, Pickens — always an asset to any film he’s in.

I streamed this through Watch Instantly on Netflix. The quality of the transfer is horrendous and not worth your time. I share this in acknowledgment that it can be very difficult to enjoy, or at least appreciate a film one hasn’t been viewed under the appropriate circumstances. I haven’t seen the print on the commercial DVD but it has to make for a better experience than I had streaming.

One Eyed Jacks (1961)

Grade: CDirected by Marlon Brando
Starring Marlon Brando and Karl Malden
Released by Paramount Pictures
Running time: 141 minutes.
Availability: DVD, Netflix Instant Watch

Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo (1944)

I've been bamboozled, but I don't mind. I went into my viewing of Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo thinking I was getting a Spencer Tracy film, but that wasn't the case. Tracy’s role amounts to probably less than five minutes of the 138-minute running time. He plays light colonel James Doolittle, the man who orchestrated an extraordinary carrier-based bombing assault on Japan in the wake of Pearl Harbor. Tracy pops up throughout the film, looking stern, giving the occasional order or making a speech. One is left with the impression that his role is bigger, but the movie actually belongs to Van Johnson. Johnson plays Ted Lawson, one of the many B-25 pilots who volunteers for the raid. (Another is played by a young Robert Mitchum)

The film offers a fairly broad survey of the events surrounding the raid, with a focus on Lawson and his fellow crew members — their feelings about the war and their personal lives. The film follows them through training and on to the raid itself, which is vividly realized (Oscar-winning effects) and surprisingly takes place just after the midpoint of the picture. Most of the second half lingers on events that follow, when the bomber crews were obliged to ditch their ships in Chinese territory overrun by Japanese troops. Dalton Trumbo's screenplay takes on a forgivably mild propagandistic tone as everyone aboard Lawson's B-25 is injured and needs to be cared for by Chinese civilians. Most other films of this type would show the crew struggling to escape from behind enemy lines using their nothing more than their wits, and probably nursing minor injuries. Not so here as almost everyone is incapacitated as a result of the forced landing and has to rely solely on the courage of the Chinese citizenry to make it to health and safety.

While the drama plays out half a world away, Johnson's all-American sweetheart of a wife (Phyllis Thaxter) is worried about her man. She is newly pregnant and frightened that Ted might not come back — though like any good war wife she keeps her chin always up and never lets her fears show. She and Johnson are both standouts, and exhibit that sort of “oh gosh!” purity that occasionally comes across as corn, but seems to strike the right chord in a film actually made during the war. I’m a fairly cynical viewer, but Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo evolves gradually into something of a tear jerker, and I was surprised by how the final scene tugged at me. Thaxter and Johnson play it pretty darn good.

Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo (1944)

Grade: B

Directed by Mervyn LeRoy
Starring Van Johnson, Phyllis Thaxter, Robert Mitchum, Robert Walker and Spencer Tracy
Released by MGM
Running time: 138 minutes.
Availability: DVD

Two for the Seesaw (1962)

If ever a poster didn’t do its film justice, this is it. The darn thing is too heavily steeped in what we (I’m a graphic design professor) have a tendency to call 101-Dalmatians-style to suggest the content of the Robert Wise’s Two for the Seesaw, which while romantic, is too tinged with melancholy and loneliness to be captured in this light-and-bright style.

Robert Mitchum stars as an attorney from Omaha who flees his failing marriage for the streets of New York, where he chances upon an unusual romance with Bohemian dreamer Shirley MacLaine. Seldom was Mitch’s signature world-weariness put to better use. He comes across beautifully here, channelling (ha!) all of the alienation and loneliness that one can feel amidst the canyons of Manhattan into his role. Though the films have nothing in common, Mitchum is almost as good here as he would be as Eddie Coyle more than a decade later. While Mitchum is thought of as a screen persona (or force of nature) more than as an actor, he holds his own quite well opposite the incredibly gifted MacLaine — she of the Best Actress Oscar and trio of Best Pictures. The clash of his repressive midwestern morality versus her Greenwich Village flightiness makes for an interesting contrast in the early scenes. The film is primarily concerned with how the pair manage to contrive a romance in spite of their differences.

Before I get any farther, I have to talk about Ted McCord’s black-and-white cinematography for Two for the Seesaw, which is among, I kid you not, the best in the history of Hollywood. I was able to watch this recently in high-definition on the MGM HD channel, and found the depiction of the streets of lower Manhattan to be nothing short of staggering. As a film noir enthusiast, this film ironically boast one or two of the most iconic representations of not only the urban landscape, but of a trench-coated protagonist among them. There is a scene in the middle of the film that finds a chain-smoking Mitchum waiting on a dark street outside MacLaine’s apartment following a bitter a quarrel. Mitchum is framed so beautifully against the deserted streets that my breath literally caught in my throat. At the conclusion of the picture, I rewound to the moment and enjoyed the frame for quite some time. McCord had a long-lasting career in Hollywood, but he isn't particularly well known to film buffs. His two biggest credits are East of Eden and The Sound of Music, as well as a three or four B-noirs. Wise however was a visually stylish director, especially when utilizing black-and-white, and the two worked together here to craft a sensuously, richly beautiful film — all the more surprising considering theatrical source material.

It has been said by some that Mitchum and MacLaine don’t have solid chemistry and the film is too long, but I disagree and would advise anyone to see this and judge for themselves. See this for the performances, for the beauty of the filming and of the city, and for the verve of Andre Previn’s great score. Just do me a favor and see it.

Although this does air on television from time to time, it isn't generally available otherwise, having never been widely released on DVD. It was recently made available from Amazon.com as a made-on-demand DVD, in much the same fashion as the Warner Archive DVD series.

Two for the Seesaw (1962)

Grade: A-

Director: Robert Wise
Starring: Robert Mitchum and Shirley MacLaine
Released by United Artists
Running time: 119 minutes
Availability: Amazon DVD on Demand.

Dive Bomber (1941)

Fred MacMurray and Errol Flynn have strong chemistry together in director Michael Curtiz’ big budget aviation film. I’ve never been a big Flynn fan, but this film helped my opinion of him — he’s certainly more believable here than in a film such as Objective, Burma!, where we are supposed to buy him as a hardened infantry commander. Freddie Mac is as reliable as ever, and Bellamy is fine in a serious role. It's actually nice to see him cast as something other than the boob in a romantic comedy for once.

It may not be accurate to call this a WWII film as it was produced and released during the buildup of 1941, but looking back it functions as one. The film is formulaic in its approach: MacMurray plays a salty flight commander to Flynn's pretty boy M.D. When MacMurray's best friend is killed in a crash, he blames Flynn for the man's operating table death. Flynn keeps his cool and turns his guilt into resolve to do something about the high-altitude blackouts that are really to blame. He transfers into the flight surgeon's unit and draws Freddie Mac as his flying instructor. Of course MacMurray and his pals give Flynn a miserable time, but he eventually wins them over through the progress he's able to make alongside fellow doctor Ralph Bellamy.

Dive Bomber is entertaining, but overlong at two + hours by at least 30 minutes. There are some incongruous and unnecessary comedy bits and even an out-of-place romantic angle with Alexis Smith. What this does have going for it are some spectacular aviation scenes filmed in technicolor. The movie scored Oscar nominations in visual effects and cinematography, both of which were well deserved. Dive Bomber is clearly a cut above other early-war flight films, if not in story then clearly in cinematography. There are numerous scenes are formation flying that are impressively stirring.

Dive Bomber (1941)

Grade: B-

Directed by: Michael Curtiz
Starring: Fred MacMurray and Errol Flynn
Released by Warner Brothers
Running time: 132 minutes
Availability: DVD