Review #741: 'Scott of the Antarctic' (1948)

Produced by Ealing Studios, Scott of the Antarctic is a stiff upper-lipped depiction of Captain Scott's infamous, ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. Facing freezing storms, starvation, lack of fuel, and having just digested the sobering revelation that Norwegian rival Roald Amundsen had beaten them too it, Scott and his remaining team of four settled and died just 11 miles from camp, where food, warmth and undoubtedly survival awaited them. Trading very much on the legend of Captain Scott, the film charms thanks to it's post-WWII optimism and gorgeous colour cinematography.

Beginning with a determined Scott, played heartily by John Mills, rounding up his crew, the film takes it's time to get to the Arctic. Relying on Captain Scott's beautifully written diary for its source of information, the film feels more documentary than straight feature. It is all the more detailed and authentic for it, but it comes at the expense of any real character development. By the time the credits roll, we know little more about Scott than when we started, apart from that he was obviously a determined and courageous man. But it makes up for this neglect with a startling final third, where director Charles Frend puts us through every step of Scott's exhausting final thrust to get back to civilisation.

Mills and the supporting cast (James Robertson Justice, Kenneth More, Harold Warrender et al) are excellent throughout, starting out as eager and boisterous, and later, as the last survivors wait to die in the tent that would become their tomb, withdrawn and contemplative. The setting plays as the main villain, and it's captured as both a place of isolated beauty and uninhabitable terror , thanks to Jack Cardiff's stunning cinematography, and it's the encroaching sense of doom that gives Scott of the Antarctic a raw power. Although it obviously ends badly, Scott's death proved to be the making of him. Amundsen was (somewhat cruelly) dismissed as a bad sportsman, and Scott was instantly labelled a hero for daring to stare such overwhelming odds in the face and hold his head high. For a country still recovering from the ravishes of war at the time of the film's release, it must have been a powerful sentiment indeed. One of Ealing's most overlooked efforts.


Directed by: Charles Frend
Starring: John Mills, Harold Warrender, Derek Bond, James Robertson Justice, Kenneth More, Diana Churchill
Country: UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #417: 'Key Largo' (1948)

Arriving at Key Largo, Florida, ex-Major Frank McCloud (Humphrey Bogart) meets up with Hotel Largo proprietor James Temple (Lionel Barrymore) and his former daughter-in-law Nora (Lauren Bacall), widow of one of Frank's unit from the war. The hotel is near deserted, with only a small handful of unruly looking characters staying there. It turns out that they have rented the hotel for a fishing holiday, but after an alcoholic woman they are with, Gaye Dawn (Claire Trevor), is manhandled by one of the group, Frank starts to suspect that there is more going on than it first seemed. With a hurricane approaching, Temple closes the hotel to wait out the storm, but the arrival of notorious gangster Johnny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson) and his injured police officer prisoner, confirms Frank's fears.

John Huston made many films in his long Hollywood career, and this was the last of four films that Bogart and Bacall made together, but Key Largo is far from the most fondly remembered of all their films. Yet although it doesn't achieve true greatness, especially when you compare it to the likes of Huston's masterpieces The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) and The African Queen (1951), the talent on display allows it to be a tense, visually striking and occasionally riveting little film noir. The theatrical roots (it was adapted from Maxwell Anderson's 1938 play) of the film means the scale is minimal, but if nothing adds to the sweaty, closed-in atmosphere, all rendered beautifully by Karl Freund's cinematography, and Huston and Richard Brooks' script gives plenty for the cast to chew on, especially the colossal Robinson and the Academy Award-winning Trevor.

Although he comes second in the credits, Robinson dominates the film when he enters about twenty minutes in. He lies sprawled in the bath chomping a huge cigar, like a revolting beached animal, and emerges to truly push Bogart out of the limelight. Even the opening title sequence reflects this, with Robinson's name higher than Bogart's. It's an alarmingly restrained performance from Bogart, who we are all used to as either the bad guy, or the tough anti-hero, and Bacall is disappointingly mute, her character being no more than the put-upon love interest when will always be remembered for playing the sultry femme fatale.

Robinson dominates, but Trevor steals the show as Rocco's boozy, gambling ex-star girlfriend, who is the figure of desperation when Rocco masochistically makes her sing for everybody for a drink. She sings a story of a woman abused by her partner, and breaks down during the climax. Rocco, affected by the similarity, refuses her a drink anyway, only to have Frank pour her a hard drink and hand it to her, enraging Rocco. It's a great scene, and most likely the scene than won Trevor the Oscar. It is the quality of the acting, and some fine technical work that really bring the B-movie plot to life, as well as Huston's ability to craft an exciting, yet dark thriller.


Directed by: John Huston
Starring: Humphrey Bogart, Edward G. Robinson, Lauren Bacall, Lionel Barrymore, Claire Trevor
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #147: 'The Naked City' (1948)

A model, Jean Dexter, is found murdered in her apartment. In what is dubbed as the bathtub murder, an investigation is opened, lead by veteran New York Lieutenant, Dan Muldoon (Barry Fitzgerald). Frank Niles (Howard Duff) and Ruth Morrison (Dorothy Hart), are brought in to help with the investigation.They knew Dexter. As the lies, deceits and criminal activity are exposed through the people that occupied her life, a deep realisation that she too was incognito with the criminal underworld becomes apparent.

Shot on location in New York by Jules Dassin, this film noir adds something quite different to the average film of this genre. The usual laconic narration that is ordinarily spoken by the lead character, is, in The Naked City, spoken by the actual producer of this film. Mark Hellinger narrates the multitude of New York vignettes, and offers clues and speculation to the police procedural that follows the murder. The fact that also all the scenes were shot on location is quite an achievement for the time. This lends a certain documentary feel to the outcome. The cinematography is startling also because of this 'realism' (shot by William H. Daniels, for which he won an Academy Award).

The narrator offers insights into the everyday life of New Yorkers. He closes by stating that there are 4 million stories in New York; and this is one of them. This device was clearly lifted by Spike Lee in his 1999 film Summer of Sam. The influence of the film is also echoed in any film that was shot in New York this film most certainly is a document for that city that never sleeps. Much of the film is dialogue-heavy. But this need for exposition is essential in this kind of story. Perhaps not the greatest known (or even greatest) of the film noir cycle, but certainly one that broke ground in its ability to represent a certain reality within its frame.


Directed by: Jules Dassin
Starring: Barry Fitzgerald, Howard Duff, Dorothy Hart
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Marc Ivamy

Review #53: 'The Red Shoes' (1948)

Cited by many directors and critics as one of the greatest films ever made, The Red Shoes was recently remastered under the care of Martin Scorsese. Directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, whilst having made many truly brilliant films, are still not held in a high enough regard. Their films were always awash with Technicolor masterstrokes, and their is no finer example of it than in this film. I truly believe that this is the most beautiful film ever made, and that you could freeze frame any second and hold it up as a work of art.

Telling a story within a story, The Red Shoes focuses on two young, aspiring artists - one is Vicky Paige (Moira Shearer), a beautiful young ballet dancer who makes an impression on ruthless producer Boris Lermonotov (Anton Walbrook). When he asks her the ultimate question - why do you want to dance? - she instantly responds 'why do you want to live?'. The second is Julian Craster (Marius Goring), an ambitious and talented composer whose ability to create great scores gains him the honour of re-writing the score for a new production of Hans Christian Andersen fairytale The Red Shoes. Vicky is cast as the lead, playing a girl seduced by a pair of red shoes that will not stop dancing as much as she tries to stop. Vicky and Julian work closely together, and then inevitably fall in love, much to the jealousy and rage of Lermonotov.

What stuck in mind the most about the film was the fact that my eyes were never allowed to rest as the film progressed. Even during the solemn moments, I found my brain struggling to absorb all the visual magic on display. As the camera pans through a busy rehearsal session, the frame is full of moving characters, colourful costumes, highly detailed sets and complex mise-en-scene. Legendary cinematographer Jack Cardiff, who worked on The African Queen (1951), as well as Powell/Pressbuger masterpieces Black Narcissus (1947) and A Matter Of Life And Death (1946), deserves every award available for his work here. The centrepiece performance of The Red Shoes which lasts for around 15 minutes, is as imaginative and as breathtaking a set-piece as in any film I've ever seen. Cardiff was given an Honorary Oscar in 2001 for his contribution to cinema.

Not to say the rest of the film is lacking. Pressburger's original script includes some fantastic lines. The complexity of Lermonotov's jealousy and anger when Vicky leaves the stage to be with her love is summed up in a great scene - Lermonotov and Julian stand in Vicky's dressing room, as Vicky is torn between her love of dance and to her husband. Julian simply accuses 'you're jealous of her', to which Lermonotov replies 'yes, I am. But in a way you'll never understand.' It's brilliance lies in it's simplicity.

The Red Shoes' legacy is it's influences of many filmmakers and cinematographers, cementing it's place as one of the greatest films of all time, and the pinnacle of the body of work produced by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. The film was practically remade recently with Black Swan (2010), which shared much of the films style and plot, but little of its intrigue and importance. Genuine cinematic magic.


Directed by: Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger
Starring: Moira Shearer, Marius Goring, Anton Walbrook
Country: UK

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie