They Died With Their Boots On (1941), Raoul Walsh.

War hero worship for droolers.

The Devil Bat (1940), Jean Yarbrough.

Reporter Kills Devil Bat! Oh and PS, Americanism and Girls!

Great thriller B! Bela Lugosi is kindly "village doctor" whose scientific research gets ripped off by local moneyed family; he seeks revenge by electrocuting bats until they feel like chewing on the jugulars of his oppressors. Bela Lugosi is such a dapper guy, always in that sharp fedora and full suit. This one is pretty solid. I appreciated all the little touches: the great question-mark tie worn by the Chicago newspaperman, the strange family portraits in Lugosi's hallway. The chilling screech heard when the bats descend on their prey is fantastic! I haven't had so much fun since The Tingler!

$5000? I can't believe these jerks!

Scared to Death (1947), Christy Cabanne.

The narrator of the film lays on a marble slab.

What the frig! Completely random group of wacky characters assemble in a house and crazy things happen. This includes Bela Lugosi, who appears to have lost his uppers, and a dwarf who gets an elaborate introduction only never to be seen again! Story goes nowhere and some guy in a green mask hangs outside the living room window; nobody really notices. This is some screenwriting without discipline or purpose. I like to imagine it was typed out at 3AM in some low-rent Hollywood apartment.

Filmed in what they call "Natural Color" but which is actually Cinecolor, a subtractive colour process that gives everything, for lack of a more sophisticated description, a strange vintage look. It made me think of Autochromes, a very early development in colour photography, although that process is completely different - see below for an example. In any case, the effect of the Cinecolor may have been the only slightly spooky thing in the whole film. It was certainly a thrill to realize Lugosi had piercing blue eyes.

Director Christy Cabanne - not a woman, to my disappointment - was assistant to DW Griffith and went on to churn out myriad B-pictures.

Autochrome by the Czech photographer Bufka, taken ca. 1915.

Heaven Can Wait (1943), Ernest Lubitsch.

A satirical movie made in 1943 that gently chides the sobriety of the social morés of a bygone era is pretty much destined to become completely dated by 2009. Though the concept of what is risqué has certainly changed and this story feels toothless by today's standards, it remains watchable because of its wonderfully witty dialogue and lovely performances. Don Ameche plays Henry Van Cleve, a well-to-do New Yorker who, though he marries the girl of his dreams, continues to dog around ceaselessly up to the point where he ends up explaining himself to some kind of maitre d' to the ante room of Hell. Ameche's playboy (whose minor sin is to love women too much) remains sympathetic - unlike many other characters who appear destined for a fiery afterlife.

I find Lubitsch's witty comedies of manners to be well crafted but ultimately weightless - real human emotion is either sparse or lacking. As well, I instinctively chafe at a little cast of characters for whom work is optional and money is no object. The beautifully composed colour (simply stunning Technicolor) is just another demonstration of its artificiality. I find I often walk away from these confections feeling amazed at the craftsmanship, yet underfed.

An unfortunate old biddy meets her end.

Ace in the Hole (1951), Billy Wilder.

Slick NYC reporter Kirk Douglas barrels into an Albuquerque newspaper office and demands to be hired. In search of a yarn, he stumbles on the news that a local man has been trapped in a caved-in pueblo and manipulates the circumstances to draw the story out as long as possible to burnish his reputation as a journalist with a nose for a good human interest story. Classic Kirk Douglas manliness all over the place including shirtlessness, hair-grabbing, drink-throwing and consternation at the sight of tacos. There's not too many stories about the integrity of journalism these days but like cop stories they are almost always interesting. I am highly suspicious of the idea that rattlesnakes enjoy bubblegum with the wrapper still on.

Law of the Lash (1947), Ray Taylor.

Lash unloops the lash

You'd think with a title like Law of the Lash that there'd be some bitching lashing going on, but sadly, Lash LaRue only gets the bullwhip out a couple times here. This film really highlights how wide shots really suck the tension out of a story, though this one is lame anyway: local gang of hoodlums steal wallets and rings from a passing wagon and Lash comes to the rescue. Flaccid and dull. Lash's sidekick Fuzzy St. John is more pathetic than amusing. Something about an unshaven old man with no teeth is just depressing.

Bordertown (1935), Archie Mayo.

Adventures of ambitious young lawyer-turned casino operator whose principle goal in life is makin' dough and avoiding the boss' nutty wife (Bette Davis). Loved casino boss Roarke whose idea of a great evening out with the wife is getting all his teeth pulled and a pair of fake chompers put in! Pop the champagne, let's make a night of it! (He does).

From the time when it was considered a test of an actor's abilities to play ethnic - Paul Muni (who was not Hispanic) is engaging but the script wavers between being blunt about the obstacles faced by Mexican Americans and caving into condescension. Enjoyed checking out Muni, who did years on the stage beginning with Yiddish theatre but did not make too many film appearances.

Bette Davis struts around the house with her low-slung boobs, trying to get her paws into Muni in every scene. Seems every white woman in the film wants a piece of Muni!

The Blue Dahlia (1946), George Marshall.

Dark, man dark. Plus que noir. Great writing, Chandler.

Tonight or Never (1931), Mervyn LeRoy.

Hello front desk? I can hear the happy couple next door kissing, dammit!

This film revolves around one central event: lonely opera diva Gloria Swanson arrives on the doorstep of a stranger (and, rumour has it, gigolo to another, aging opera star) in hopes of a romantic evening. I suppose what the Hays Code would have washed out, if this had been made a few years later, would be a fairly straightforward and mature depiction of female loneliness and desire.

Don't know if 1931 movies are considered "early talkies" -- there's a noticeable lack of music, aside from a delightful zither performance on the banks of the Danube. Early treat to see how Gregg Toland (Citizen Kane cinematographer and creator of the "deep focus" technique) places the camera so that we get a visual underscore of what is going on in the script. See below for a particularly vivid example! The only thing I have ever read about Toland has been a great article by Hinton Als in the New Yorker (June 19, 2006); in it, Als points out that as early as the mid-30s, Toland "began producing his most resonant work, shooting actors with an impressionistic flair." Please write a full biography, man!

I Walked With a Zombie (1943), Jacques Tourneur.

Young Canadian nurse from Ottawa leaves snowy winter behind and accepts position in the Caribbean. OK, well, I was hooked...

So what if the locals sing calypso songs about how your new boss is from a messed up English family who keeps a zombie trapped in a tower? Think about the palm trees! Go for a swim!

Very moody and atmospheric, a slowly unraveling romantic mystery. Somehow very soothing and enjoyable. I'm going to go pour me some rum now.