Warlock (1959)

The '50s saw the emergence of the so-called "adult Western," oaters which place characterization and thematic baggage ahead of action. Edward Dymytryk's Warlock (1959) is a typical example. Long on ponderous talk, it's been subjected to more psycho-sexual dissection than any Western save Nicholas Ray's Johnny Guitar. The movie's interesting even if it doesn't quite hang together.

Warlock is a mining town terrorized by Abe McQuown (Tom Drake) and his gang. After McQuown's boys run Warlock's marshal (Walter Coy) out of town, the terrified townsfolk hire gunslinger Clay Blaisedell (Henry Fonda) and his sidekick Tom Morgan (Anthony Quinn) for defense. Clay and Tom set themselves up as lawmen while earning spare change through a faro game. The marshals start to wear out their welcome after Clay's rival dies in a hold-up, while McQuowan's gang starts encroaching on his territory. Reformed cowboy Johnny Gannon (Richard Widmark) becomes Deputy Sheriff and tries to prevent all-out war. Meanwhile, Clay's romance with Jessie (Dolores Michael) sends Tom over the edge.

Warlock is based on Oakley Hall's novel but plays as a deconstruction of the Wyatt Earp legend. Clay is a nastier Wyatt, buffaloing criminals and running vice rackets, with Tom a back-shooting, demented Doc Holiday. Writer Robert Alan Arthur even loosely re-stages bits of Earp lore: a shady stagecoach hold-up, the jurisdictional dispute between Clay and Sheriff Keller (Hugh Saunders), the uneven showdown between Clay/Tom and amateur cowboys. Warlock's anti-heroes are hired guns rather than "real" lawmen, tolerated without being liked. By film's end they're as unwelcome as McQuown's men.  

"Adult Westerns" are heavy on psychological baggage, from Anthony Mann's tormented heroes to the sexual weirdness of Johnny Guitar and Terror in a Texas Town. Warlock raises eyebrows with Tom, whose obsessive jealousy towards Clay implies an "unnatural" relationship. Perhaps I'd cotton to this if I hadn't heard critics claim just about every male film duo as "coded" lovers. If Tom is gay then Clay doesn't suspect it, least of all while pairing with Jessie. Perhaps this cigar is just a cigar?

Warlock is a slow-burner but the powder dampens long before the climax. Arthur's script bogs down in talk and side characters: square Johnny Gannon doesn't fit the warped story, with love interests Jessie and Lily Dollar (Dorothy Malone) eating up valuable screen time. Dymytryk stages clever scenes like Clay's humiliation of a cocksure cowboy (DeForrest Kelly) and Gannon's torture by his old gang, while Joseph MacDonald provides stunning color photography. But Warlock lurches into silly melodrama with Tom's meltdown and Clay's ludicrous reaction. Dymytryk salvages things, though, with an inspired anti-climax.

Henry Fonda does fine, though his vaguely amoral Clay isn't noticeably different than his straight hero roles. Anthony Quinn is less successful, mixing a regrettable Southern accent with ham acting. Richard Widmark (Two Rode Together) navigates his conventional arc with finesse. Dorothy Malone provides a nice edge against Dolores Michaels' white bread princess. DeForest Kelly (Gunfight at the OK Corral) makes a sympathetic bad guy and Wallace Ford (The Man from Laramie) steals his scenes as a righteous Judge. The supporting cast brims with familiar faces: Vaughn Taylor (The Professionals), Whit Bissell (The Magnificent Seven), Joe Turkel (The Shining), Roy Jenson (The Wind and the Lion), Frank Gorshin and L.Q. Jones.

Warlock isn't quite the sum of its parts. Interesting in conception and full of great scenes, it lacks the cohesion to be a classic.

The Caine Mutiny

The Caine Mutiny (1954) is a superb film on many levels: a powerful character drama, a pictorally-handsome epic and a thoughtful look at the pressures of military command. Producer Stanley Kramer and director Edward Dymytryk were prone to obnoxious "message films," but their adaptation of Herman Wouk's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel is an unqualified success.

Newly minted Ensign Willie Keith (Robert Francis) is assigned to the Caine, a small minesweeper run ineptly by Commander de Vriess (Tom Tully). Keith befriends the ship's officers, steadfast Lieutenant Maryk (Van Johnson) and snide would-be novelist Keefer (Fred Macmurray), but struggles in his first days at sea. Things change when Captain Phillip Queeg (Humphrey Bogart) assumes command. Queeg is a martinet who whips the crew into shape, but his erratic actions - cutting a tow line during a training exercise, turning tail during a military operation - cause his officers to question his competence. An incident involving pilfered strawberries brings Queeg's sanity into question, and Keefer convinces Keith and Maryk that mutiny is the only answer to the Caine's problems.

The Caine Mutiny is superbly crafted. This could easily have been a Mutiny on the Bounty tale of nautical tyranny, but Wouk, Dymytryk and scenarist Stanley Roberts make things far much more complex. Queeg is not a conventional villain, but a badly damaged man with crippling personality flaws. He's seen heavy action in the Battle of the Atlantic, being attacked by one submarine too many. The scenes where he half-apologizes to Keefer for his first rant, and a scenee where he practically begs his officers for help, show that he's all too aware of his shortcomings, even if he's loathe to admit it. Regardless, his obsession with shirttails and strawberries destroys crew morale, and his instability makes him a dangerous man.

The conflict between Keefer and Maryk drives the story. Keefer is marvelously complex, a cynical agitator who nudges Maryk towards mutiny, but an inveterate, self-serving coward in crunch time. Maryk knows something's wrong with Queeg, but can't think of a course of action, allowing Keefer to dictate events. The trial scenes place events in stark relief, showing that the mutiny, while justified by immediate circumstances, was not inevitable. Nor are Keefer and Maryk heroes. Instead of helping Queeg or going through proper channels, they fail to act until events force their hand. This is much more interesting than the usual "When is insubordination justified?" dilemma, which assumes the captain is always at fault.

Dramatically the film is solid, with only a few clunks. The film is marvelously fast-paced, given that it's a straight drama, alternating seemlessly between sweeping ocean scenes and quiet conversations. There's an admirable balance between high adventure and personal conflicts that few films achieve. On the other hand, we spend a lot of time on Keith's romance with a pretty singer (Mae Wynn), a subplot completely disconnected from the story. Greenwald gets a pointed final rant which spells things out for slower audience members. These bows to audience sensibility are forgiveable, however.

Dymytryk toned down the novel's rougher edges to ensure Navy cooperation, but the results seem worth the artistic compromise. Franz Planer's beautiful Technicolor photography makes the film function as an epic even with the focused drama, with use of real Navy ships, archive footage and a few well-placed miniatures. Max Steiner's score feels a bit too bombastic for the material, blaring Navy ballads even as characters plan and deliberate.

This is Humphrey Bogart's best late-career performance. Queeg seems a typical martinet at first, with barely-concealed neuroses, an eye for petty details and an obsession with discipline. But he's a much more complex character than Captain Bligh, a war hero who's simply seen too much combat to function properly but too proud to admit it. Bogart plays the part beautifully, mixing his forceful personality with scarcely-concealed inner pain, allowing us to pity Queeg even in his worst moments.

The supporting cast is phenomenal. Newcomer Robert Francis (The Long Gray Line) gives a superb performance, holding his own against his seasoned co-stars. Sadly, Francis died in a plane crash in 1955, cutting short a promising career. Fred Macmurray (Double Indemnity) has never been better, subverting his usual charm with a wonderfully snide, loathsome character. Van Johnson's (Battleground) conflicted, tormented Maryk is easily his best performance. Jose Ferrer's (Lawrence of Arabia) sardonic attorney doesn't show up until the last forty minutes, but completely steals his section of the film. E.G. Marshall (Nixon) ably plays the Navy prosecutor, and Lee Marvin and Claude Akins (Rio Bravo) can be spotted as sailors.

Strangely, of all the supporting cast only Tom Tully's brief, one-note portrayal of Queeg's predecessor received an Oscar nod. Tully is easily the weakest cast member aside from May Wynn's superfluous love interest.

A few minor flaws aside, The Caine Mutiny is a gripping, superbly made film. Rarely has a movie better explored the difficulties of military command, and the consequences of miscommunication and incorrect action.

Robert Ryan Noir Extravaganza

On Friday, TCM had a day-long tribute to Robert Ryan, that gifted yet underappreciated actor, and I took advantage of the opportunity to see some of his less widely-available flicks. Here reviewed are a trio of his early films, films noir from top-notch directors where he made his name as one of Hollywood's premiere tough guys.

(Also perused were two of his Anthony Mann collaborations, Men in War (1957) and God's Little Acre (1958), films of different genres which may or may not get their own article.)

Crossfire (1947, Edward Dmytryk)



Ryan's breakout film, Crossfire is a somewhat awkward cross between a noir and a social message film. Its attack on biogtry and intolerance may have been groundbreaking in its time, but the film seems rather stilted and preachy today.

Jewish GI Samuels (Sam Levene) is murdered, and detective Finlay (Robert Young) believes some of his service mates to be responsible. Finlay initially suspects Private Mitchell (George Cooper), who conveniently cannot remember the night in question, but with the reluctant help of Sergeant Keeley (Robert Mitchum), Finlay turns his attention towards Montgomery (Robert Ryan), a loudmouth who slowly reveals a nasty strain of anti-Semitism.

Leftist director Edward Dmytryk (later one of the Hollywood Ten) really wants us to know that prejudice is bad. Unfortunately, the point is made in a regrettably hamfisted way. The movie takes the easy route of stressing that Samuels was a great guy and there was no reason to kill him. An eloquent speech by Finlay portrays all intolerance as one and the same, a gross, patronizing oversimplifcation of a complex issue. It's especially telling that the biggest and most pervasive intolerance of post-war America - racism - is not once mentioned; it's much easier to show that the intolerance practiced by Nazi Germany is bad, I suppose. What may have seemed daring and provocative in 1947 now seems very much a product of its time.

As a straight noir, Crossfire is decent enough. Dmytryk's direction is rather unremarkable, although he makes fine use of Harry Gerstad's interesting editing, with its distinctly dreamlike flashbacks. The story is straightforward but its moral ambiguity is interesting: the soldiers are reluctant to help Finlay's investigation out of service solidarity, and peripheral characters - especially a call girl (Gloria Grahame) and her obsessive husband (Paul Kelly) - seem equally seedy. Without employing gangsters or usual genre cliches, Dmytryk successfully creates a rather disquieting and cynical view of '40s America.

Ryan excells in his star-making turn: no one can play a charming creep better than him, even if his guilt is never really in doubt. He would play a nearly-identical character in Bad Day at Black Rock eight years later, which did a somewhat better job with a similar story and the same issues. Robert Young (Western Union) is the nominal protagonist, and he's good if rather stiff. Robert Mitchum has a rather weak secondary role and doesn't make much of an impression. Gloria Grahame (It's a Wonderful Life) gets a meaty part as a hard-nosed call girl.

Act of Violence (1948, Fred Zinnemann)



A noir by the great Fred Zinnemann (A Man for All Seasons), Act of Violence also makes use of post-WWII America as a setting, with tormented, guilt-ridden GIs as protagonists. A bit uneven in its plotting, its central story is superb, and fine direction and acting make it a must-see.

Frank Enley (Van Heflin) lives a seemingly-idyllic life as a building contractor in Middle America, with a beautiful wife (Janet Leigh) and child. Into the picture limps Joe Parkson (Robert Ryan), a crippled WWII vet who knows service buddy Frank's secret: as a POW, Enley betrayed an escape attempt which led to a massacre. Frank flees to Los Angeles to escape the vengeful Joe, getting mixed up with a woman of doubtful virtue (Mary Astor) and a gangster (Berry Kroeger) who determines to bump off Joe. Joe's girl (Phyllis Thaxter) tries to convince her beau to call off the hit, while Frank wrestles with his own conscience.

Act of Violence is a wonderfully ambivalent movie. It seems like an odd cross between The Best Years of Our Lives (veterans struggling to adjust to civilian life) and A History of Violence (idyllic family man whose past comes back to haunt him), but has a darker tinge than both. The film refuses to make its morality easily codified: Frank provides a noble "excuse" for his wartime treachery, but it seems just as likely that cowardice motivated him. Joe comes off as a psycho at first, but he has a justification for his actions, and the film provides a loyal and loveable girlfriend as a foil. Frank, eager to forget the war, easily rejoined society while Joe remained a neurotic outsider obsessed with the past; when the two strands cross, it's hopelessly messy. Do we cheer for the past traitor and present model citizen, or the war hero-turned-psycho?

Zinnemann's direction is fine, with appropriately-moody photography by Robert Surtees heightening the tension. The story takes an odd sidetrack when Frank gets mixed up in with criminals; it seems as if Zinnemann and writers Robert L. Richards and Collier Young feared the main plot was too thin. Still, this development sets the stage for the wonderfully surprising finale, which really spins the film's moral compass out of whack.

Van Heflin (Shane) gives one of his best performances; Frank is never less than likeable but Heflin makes him convincingly complex and guilt-ridden. Ryan is equally good: he's dependably creepy early on, but Zinnemann makes him gradually more sympathetic as the film develops. A remarkably unglamorous Mary Astor (The Maltese Falcon) and Berry Kroeger (Gun Crazy) ably represent the seamy underbelly of post-war America. Janet Leigh (The Naked Spur) and Phyllis Thaxter (Jim Thorpe - All American) sweeten the deal as likeable "nice girls."

The Set-Up (1949, Robert Wise)



The real gem of this group is Robert Wise's (The Sand Pebbles) take on the crooked, grimy world of professional boxing. Ryan gives probably his best performance (with all due respect to Billy Budd and The Wild Bunch) as the tragic Stoker Thompson, a past-his-prime boxer who career - and life - are pulled out from under him by his supposed friends.

Stoker Thompson (Robert Ryan) is an aging heavyweight champ due to fight against up-and-comer Tiger Nelson (Hal Baylor). Stoker's manager Tiny (George Tobias), however, agrees to throw the fight without telling Stoker; he's so sure his charge will lose that he doesn't bother to cut Stoker in. Stoker gives the fight his all and somehow manages to win, leaving him to face the wrath of tough guy Little Boy (Alan Baxter) and his goons.

Filmed roughly in real-time, The Set-Up is a wonderful little film. The story is pretty straightforward but plays out like an epic tragedy: Stoker's playing against a rigged deck but doesn't realize it, and he has to pay the consequences for his manager's perfidy. Wise's sparse direction adding a documentary-real feel to the proceedings, bringing the seedy world of boxing to vivid life. It's a remarkably grim and downbeat film, showing a horribly amoral and destructive world in chilling detail.

This has to be Ryan's best performance. He rarely got to play sympathetic characters but he really shines here, convincing as the proud, aged boxer and the man betrayed. Audrey Totter adds a welcome glimmer of humanity as Stoker's girlfriend. The supporting cast is filled out by a dependably seedy bunch: Alan Baxter (Abe Lincoln in Illinois), George Tobias (Mildred Pierce), Hal Baylor (Sands of Iwo Jima), James Edwards (Patton) and Wallace Ford (The Man From Laramie).