The Alamo (1960) - John Wayne

The defense of the Alamo mission in 1836 by a small band of Texians against superior forces under Mexican General Santa Anna has been brought to the scene numerous times, but none so famous as John Wayne's 1960 directorial debut. The battle was a pivotal moment in the Texas Revolution, one that over time evolved into one of America's greatest myths. Wayne, at the time America's biggest star, was the perfect man to take on the role of the myth's biggest hero, Davy Crockett. He did so, only after financial backers insisted the popular star assume one of the major roles.

Though it has faults, the final film is exciting and a rousing tale, one that captures the spirit of the times, the heroic nature of the men, and the ideals that Wayne embraced in this very personal project. All in all, he had ample reason to be proud of the film, particularly considering the number of hats he was wearing: producer, director, actor, and financial backer.

Wayne kept the story's basic structure, with three equally-stressed leads. Besides his own Crockett, Richard Widmark appears as Jim Bowie, and Lawrence Harvey as Colonel Travis. Thanks in part to the script, Wayne comes off best. As Crockett he gets the best speeches, the first with Travis in a cantina. Harvey's right for his role of a martinet. He always strikes me as somewhat unpleasant, bordering on obnoxious, a little full of himself and self-righteous. The character of Travis comes off similarly, so it works. Travis wonders if Crockett and his men will join the fight to free Texas. Crockett explains his motives:

Crockett: Republic. I like the sound of the word. It means people can live free, talk free, go or come, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they choose. Some words give you a feeling. Republic is one of those words that makes me tight in the throat - the same tightness a man gets when his baby takes his first step or his first baby shaves and makes his first sound as a man. Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm. Republic is one of those words.



Widmark as Bowie and Harvey as Travis.


Later, there's a beautiful scene with Crockett and Flaca (Linda Cristal), a native Mexican woman from San Antonio. They talk beside a small stream beneath a majestic tree. Crockett expands on his reasons for coming to the territory.

Crockett: It was like I was empty. Well, I'm not empty anymore. That's what's important, to feel useful in this old world, to hit a lick against what's wrong for what's right even though you get walloped for saying that word. Now I may sound like a Bible beater yelling up a revival at a river crossing camp meeting, but that don't change the truth none. There's right and there's wrong. You got to do one or the other. You do the one and you're living. You do the other and you may be walking around, but you're dead as a beaver hat.

Wayne as Crockett and Linda Crystal as Flaca. 

Cristal, who doesn't have much to do except look beautiful, is only in a few scenes before the action takes off. Her character could have been excised from the film for pacing purposes, but I'm glad Wayne left her in. The only other time I've seen her is in the 1960's television Western The High Chapparral. She's lovely.

Sometimes Widmark's performance seems slightly strained. In the film, as in real life, Bowie severely injures his leg before the final battle. Bowie also suffered from consumption. Perhaps Widmark tried too hard to infuse his character with what he perceived must have been the man's sour mood. Either that, or Widmark felt slighted knowing he was playing third fiddle in the film.

He does get my favorite line in the film though. The Mexicans have arrived and Santa Anna sends out an officer under a flag of truce to suggest the defenders capitulate. As the man reads the message, Travis gives his answer by touching the end of his cigar to ignite the fuse of a cannon. It fires, interrupting the man's speech. Bowie, who up to this point has found nothing to like in the arrogant Travis, turns to Crockett: "I'd hate to say anything good about that long-winded jackanapes, but he does know the short way to start a war."

The actual battle is well directed, though depicted in full daylight instead of pre-dawn darkness as actually happened. The physical layout of the Alamo complex helps. You get a real sense of its weakness as a defensive position. Clearly, Wayne strove for authenticity here, having built a close replica, purportedly from surviving blueprints. It begins with martial music punctuated by drummers as long lines of infantry and cavalry take their positions. There's plenty of courage from both sides. Cannon and gunsmoke and the sounds of battle work to enhance the viewers' feel of desperation for the heavily out-numbered defenders, and several impressive stunt sequences include riders and horses falling, and exploding adobe walls that send defenders flying through the air.

This is the best part of the film, demonstrating that, as director, Wayne was more adept at action than the buildup.

The most valid knock against the film is its length, evidence that Wayne as a director had difficulty exercising restraint when it came to editing. It takes nearly 80 minutes before the Mexican army arrives on scene. Wayne mimics his mentor John Ford and includes a few moments of forced humor--supporting actor Chill Wills doesn't help matters--and there is a long sequence that precedes the battle where Crockett and some of his men tussle with a local merchant who's trying to manipulate Flaca into marriage. It's not needed, other than to show that the Texas population included both supporters and opponents of Santa Anna.

And the film has its historical inaccuracies, one of the most glaring being the timing of the death of Jim Bowie's wife--it happened well before the events shown in the film. Wayne placed it during the siege and has Bowie read the news in a letter, one of the film's most dramatic moments. It's also Widmark's finest moment.

Still, Wayne wanted to make a film about ideas--that it takes courage to fight against all odds for something you believe in--and in that he succeeded wonderfully.

More importantly, he gets one of the most essential facts right. If not prominently displayed, Wayne doesn't shy away from the fact that Sam Houston, Travis, Bowie and men of their ilk were rebels, seeking through violence to break away from what they perceived was a despotic leader. And when Wayne includes the fabricated sequence of Crockett composing a letter, supposedly from Santa Anna, to trick his men into joining the Alamo defenders, he calls the Tennesseans "interlopers," arguing this isn't their fight. It is an accurate description.     

The film earned 7 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture. The music by 16-time Oscar nominee Dimitri Tiomkin is one of his best scores.

Cinematographer William Clothier, best known for Westerns, did spectacular work in certain scenes: the men from Tennessee riding through the tall grass, the lone sentinel atop the church at dusk, the grand scale of the final attack. There's also some nice scenes of the Mexican army's march through the harsh countryside. It includes thousands of extras, looking resplendent in their colorful uniforms.

A beautiful composition by cameraman William Clothier.

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) - John Huston

Doc is fresh out of the pen with a foolproof plan to knock off a jewelry store, one last big score before he retires to chase pretty girls in Mexico. He recruits a small group of low-life criminals to help with the job: Gus as driver; Louis to crack the safe; and Dix for muscle. With "the goods" secured, Doc and Dix make their rendezvous with Mr. Emmerich, the financier and fence, whose attempt to double-cross the thieves sends things spiraling out of control.

Director John Huston carved a sub-genre in noir with this stylistic and moody heist film. Often copied, no one has equaled it for its brilliant character development and ability to suck the viewer into the lives of bottom-rung criminals living on the dirty edge of post-war society. The film also exemplifies wonderfully well why black & white cinematography captured the mood of the genre in ways that color photography never could. The dark and shadowy scenes perfectly match the souls of the amoral characters here, and are analogous to the blanket of desperation that grips their lives.

We meet Dix (Sterling Hayden) first, slinking along in the early morning. The cops are looking for him, suspecting him of a nearby hold-up. Dix makes his way to Gus' diner (James Whitmore). Gus hides Dix' revolver in the cash register just before the officers arrive to take him in for questioning. We'll soon learn that Dix likes to play the horses--not well--as he'll return to Gus' to hit his friend up for a loan. At the station, Dix stands in a line-up. He has a long rap sheet. (Look for the middle suspect--a young, skinny Strother Martin in his first screen role.) Dix is released after a victim refuses to finger him as the perpetrator.

Dix hides to elude the police.

Next, we meet Doc Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe), just out of seven years in prison. He comes to Cobby (Marc Lawrence), a smarmy bookie who has connections. Doc asks him to arrange a meeting with Mr. Emmerich, an attorney who'll finance Doc's caper. Dix arrives to place a bet, and while there, takes offense at something Coffy says and storms out; but in the process, leaves Doc impressed that here might be a man he can count on in a pinch. Later that night, Cobby and Doc visit Emmerich (Louis Calhern). They don't know it, but Emmerich is broke. Unable to support his lavish life style, he sees Doc's plan as a way to get out from under. Emmerich agrees to put up $50,000 so Doc can hire help. He also offers to fence the stolen goods, thereby increasing the overall take for all of them, estimated at upwards of $1 million.

Calhern is perfect as a man who hides behind a facade of wealth. Ostensibly calm, he is a practiced liar, devious, and as desperate as the thieves. In one scene, he confesses his plight to an associate, wringing his hands across his face in anguish. Emmerich has the film's best line. Talking with his bed-ridden wife, he calms her fears about the awful people he comes in contact with. "Oh, there's nothing so different about them," he says. "After all, crime is only... a left-handed form of human endeavor."

As the other two men leave, Emmerich steps into the adjoining room and we discover the cause for the man's financial straights. He leans over his mistress, Angela (Marilyn Monroe), dosing on the couch. A girl like that costs a lot of money to keep happy. Monroe, just 24 here, had appeared on screen before, but this surely was the start of her rocketing to fame as a sex-symbol. She looks like a girl used to getting what she wants, and knowing how to string along a sugar daddy. She only gets two scenes in the film, but they do the trick. Alluring and sensual, she is surprisingly thin and quite lovely. She'll look even better later in an off-the-shoulder black number. Emmerich's expression says it all. All he can do is utter "some sweet kid."

Dix receives a visitor at his simple apartment, Doll, played by Jean Hagen. Hagen gives a fine performance, the best in the film. Doll needs a place to stay for a few days; because the cops raided her place of employment, a clip joint, she's missed payday. Dix and Doll's relationship is the most interesting in the film. We can infer from their conversations they have a history. Perhaps once lovers, they at least seem kindred spirits, similarly downtrodden and unable to catch a break. Like all the characters in this dark story, they clearly haven't made the best choices in life. Still, you sort of feel sorry for both.

Dix either isn't able to express his feelings or doesn't want to. When she asks to spend the night, he says sure, "just don't get any ideas." Still, a smile creased his lips when he saw who'd come to call, and her face lights up expectantly later when he calls her on the stairs as she's leaving the next day. By her gaze, you know she has feelings for him. Like the men in the story, she seems scarred by life, trapped in a dead-end existence. The way she watches him finish his drink, you wonder if she's also an alcoholic.

Hayden as Dix and Hagen as Doll.

By now all the principals have been introduced, and we already know everything we need about the men in a few short scenes. Huston and collaborator Ben Maddow knew how flesh out their characters with little dialog. The script is highly entertaining, filled with clever slang and the nomenclature of the criminal underworld. Doc calls a safe cracker, a "boxman," and when Cobby insults Dix, Dix reacts angrily: "Don't bone me!"

In the asphalt jungle, no one is clean. A corrupt police lieutenant, Ditrich, who's earlier been read the riot act by the police commissioner for losing tract of Doc after his release from prison, interrupts Doc and Cobby in Cobby's office. He's obviously taking money under the table from Cobby. When he realizes who's sitting there, he leaves without speaking.

Doc: That copper, he recognized me.
Cobby: How'd you know he was a copper?
Doc: I can smell one a block off.
Cobby: Oh, don't worry about Ditrich. He's on my payroll. Practically a partner. Me and him, we're like that. [Cobby holds up his index and middle finger]
Doc: Experience has taught me never to trust a policeman. Just when you think one's all right, he turns legit.

A heavy sense of dread permeates the film, the end preordained. Capers like this never end well. The script portends the unrealized hopes for two of the gang. Besides Doc's wish to make Mexico afterwards, Dix laments to Doll about the loss of his family's horse farm, an incident from his youth that has left him deeply scarred. One big score will enable him to buy it back, and the first thing he'll do is "jump in the creek and wash off the dirt of the city." Louis echos the thought that urban life in the post-war city is filthy. Upset that his new son is sick because his wife takes him out in the morning for fresh air, he says it's too cold and barks, "there's no fresh air in this city!"

Doc goes over the plan with his men.

In a wise decision, director Huston doesn't linger on the actual robbery--it's not really the point of the film. It starts off like clockwork, but soon begins to unravel. A night watchman enters the scene. Dix wrestles the man, who drops his weapon. It goes off and Louis is fatally wounded in the stomach. With loot in hand, the robbers disperse. Doc and Dix meet Emmerich to make the exchange, but the shady lawyer doesn't have the promised cash. Doc rejects his offer to stash the jewels there, a decision that doesn't sit well with Emmerich's hired thug.

The end comes as expected, with all the bad guys paying a price for their crime. Cobby proves to be the gang's weak link, confessing under police pressure. As the cops close in, Emmerich isn't man enough to face the music. He at least lets Angela off the hook. His alibi, he tells her to "just tell the truth, baby." The old sap actually loves her.

Doc and Dix split up. Doc looks on his way to safety with the jewels sewn inside his coat, but is waylaid as he stops at a diner where he sits enchanted as a young girl jitterbugs to a juke box. Huston pushes the censor envelope with Jaffe's lecherous look. The best camera shot in the film occurs here, the lens following the girl as she moves to the window, slapping hands and twisting hips. She moves away and we glimpse two cops in the shadows, standing outside looking in.

Doc's vice.

Capturing the mastermind.

The film ends as it began, with Dix. He and Doll escape toward Kentucky. Shot in the side from his encounter at Emmerich's, he's hallucinating from loss of blood and barely conscious. Doll stops at a doctor who proclaims that he won't get far: "He hasn't got enough blood left in him to keep a chicken alive." Somehow they manage to cross the Ohio River and arrive at the old family farm. Dix staggers into the field of bluegrass and collapses as a colt comes to nuzzle his face. Home at last.

Dix makes it home.

The story is based on a novel by W.R. Burnett, who also authored Little Caesar (1931) and High Sierra (1941), two other crime dramas brought successfully to the screen. He also wrote the screenplay for The Great Escape (1963).  Harold Rossen handled the cinematography, so central to the mood of the film. He received an Oscar nomination for his efforts. For his career, Rossen was a five-time nominee.

The Birds (1963) - Alfred Hitchcock

Hitchcock camps it up in a publicity photo.

Something weird is happening in Bodega Bay. Intrigued by handsome lawyer Mitch Brenner, rich San Francisco socialite Melanie Daniels drives up the coast to the quaint little town, hoping perhaps to kindle a romance. Upon her arrival, she is attacked by a sea gull. The odd avian behavior is not an isolated incident however; and as she and Mitch begin to fall for one another, gatherings of birds grow larger and more aggressive.

Leave it to Alfred Hitchcock to take an innocent creature like a bird and make it evil. He was at the height of his power in 1963. Following the immensely successful Psycho and his popular long-running television series, his choice of projects was unlimited. For inspiration he went to a short story by Daphne Du Maurier. (Of course, he had gone to Du Maurier twice before, in 1939 for Jamaica Inn and in 1940 with Rebecca, which won that year's Oscar for Best Film.) Seeing his new film, you would never look at crows in the quite the same way as before.

The Birds may not be among his best overall efforts, but it is still fun, a fright for younger viewers, and it contains one terrific action sequence, and outside of Psycho's shower scene, perhaps the most iconic image in all of Hitchcock's canon. If it fails to excite some adult viewers and fans, it may be because evil seems less menacing when perpetrated by nature rather than by the hand of man, Hitchcock's usual approach. 

One of the stronger attributes to the film is its pacing. Hitchcock builds the suspense beautifully. The title hints that you should expect something odd with our flying friends, and he tantalizes us with a slow buildup. The main characters are introduced in a San Francisco pet shop, where Melanie (Tippi Hedren) meets Mitch (Rod Taylor), who has come to purchase a pair of love birds for his younger sister, Kathy, for her birthday. Melanie's reputation as a spoiled party girl, fueled by gossip columns, precedes her and allows Mitch to recognize her. A humorous sequence ensures where Mitch plays a joke on the girl, pretending to think she works in the store. This encounter sets up the reason for Melanie to follow him to Bodega Bay, where she brings the gift to Kathy.

Hitchcock displays a goofy sense of humor on the drive up the coastal highway. As Melanie's convertible negotiates the twists in the roadway, the two birds, perched in their cage, lean into the turns. The birds are green, and Melanie wears a similarly colored dress throughout the film.

Melanie enquires at the post office where Mitch lives, and after securing a motor boat, putters across the bay to secretly deposit the love birds at the Brenner home. Returning by water, a single gull suddenly swoops down and strikes her forehead. Mitch, who has discovered the birds and noticed her in the boat, arrives to tend to the minor wound.

Two other characters are introduced at this stage: Mitch's mother, Lydia (Jessica Tandy), who's overly protective of her son and likely an expert in passive/aggressive behavior to discourage any romance in his life; and Annie (Suzanne Pleshette), the local school teacher. One of Mitch's former girlfriends, she still has feelings for him.

At Mitch's urging, Melanie decides to spend the night. Awkwardly, she does so at Annie's. Pleshette has a nice scene where she sits listening to a phone call between Mitch and Melanie. He asks her to attend Kathy's birthday party the next day. Annie stares vacantly, thinking of an earlier day, and you know she wishes Mitch's attentions were on her instead of Melanie.

The scene highlights the biggest problem with the film--Annie is a more interesting character than the lead, and Pleshette a much better actress. Hitchcock took a risk casting the unknown Hedren. She looks the part, icy and, her hair tightly coiffed, but her performance is merely adequate. It's hard to develop much feeling for her character. One wonders how much more interesting the film would have been had the roles been reversed.

At the party the next day, the children are attacked by birds. No one is seriously hurt, but the incident is ominous. The next morning Lydia visits a neighbor and makes a grisly discovery. Birds have broken through his bedroom window. He is dead, his eyes plucked out, leaving gaping black holes. The scene, shown in rapid closeup cuts, is considerable more graphic than anything Hitchcock had previously presented an audience. The director was changing with the times, and by the time of Frenzy nine years later, he would embrace overt violence in flim, though one suspects, reluctantly.  

Apparently Lydia isn't the only one angry about spoiled bird seed.

Lydia, shaken, asks Melanie to retrieve Kathy from school, setting up the film's most memorable sequence. With school in session, Melanie sits on a bench outside, impatient and nervous. The children sing an irritating song in the background. Unseen by Melanie, large blackbirds begin to accumulate on a jungle gym behind her. At first we see a single bird alight on the bars. The camera cuts back to Melanie, growing increasingly restive. Back to the gym, where four birds now sit. Back to Melanie. Back to the gym, now with five birds. Back to Melanie. Finally, she spots a bird in the sky and follows its flight downward. A cut to the gym reveals hundreds of animals. It's a wonderfully edited piece by longtime Hitchcock collaborator George Tomasini.

The film's most famous image.

Melanie and Annie hustle the children out and they all make a mad dash downhill to the center of town under a frenzied bird attack. Today, it looks obviously fake--most birds are superimposed over the action--but in its day it was highly effective. For the most part the children do a good job of looking terrified, some swatting at stuffed birds attached to their head, and one little girl takes a nasty fall and breaks her glasses. Watching the scene as a child for the first time was unsettling.

Now is a good time to talk about the score. There is none. The only "music" is electronic noises designed to represent screeching birds when they attack. It's an effective technique, especially here where it serves to enhance the mood of panic. Still, I miss Bernard Herrmann. His contribution to previous Hitchcock films were an integral reason they were so memorable. Without Herrmann's score on Psycho, North by Northwest, and Vertigo, those films would have had a very different feel. In any case, the lack of score here seems a missed opportunity. So does the fact that none of the outside attacks occur at night or dusk. Rather, they happen in bright sunlight. Things are scarier if you can't see them.

The magnificent diner sequence follows. With fine contributions by an ensemble cast, Hitchcock gets to the heart of the film: how people react in times of crisis and confusion. The star is Ethel Griffies as Mrs. Bundy, a knowledgeable ornithologist. Film noir veteran Charles McGraw appears is a grizzled fisherman and Joe Mantel (Ernest Borgnine's buddy in Marty) is a traveling salesman. Familiar faces to TV viewers of the period include Doreen Lang as an hysterical mother, Karl Swenson as a drunk who thinks it's the end of the world, and Lonny Chapman, the diner owner.

Mrs. Bundy dispenses her knowledge at the diner.

"I have never known birds of different species to flock together. The very concept is unimaginable. Why, if that happened, we wouldn't stand a chance! How could we possibly hope to fight them?"

The fourteen minute scene starts with Melanie on the phone to her father, explaining about the attack at the school. She's upset, and the others in the diner overhear the conversation. Naturally, some begin to ask questions. Mrs. Bundy explains that the brain pan of a bird is too small to enable it to develop sufficient intelligence to plan an attack. The characters are wonderfully natural here, interrupting one another as in real speech, and displaying expressions of skepticism. I particularly love how Mrs. Brudy responds to Melanie's question of what she thinks is behind the attacks. Instead of offering an explanation, Bundy throws it back at her. "What do you think ..."

As they debate the school attack, the birds return with a vengeance, knocking a man over who is fueling his car at a gas pump. The hose falls out and the gasoline begins to spill into the street, across the road to a parking lot., Another man pulls in and lights a cigarette. The diner patrons shout a warning but he drops the match when it burns his finger, igniting a terrific explosion.

Dammit! I'm out of change.

The scene includes an oddity: Hitchcock uses four quick stop-action shots of Hedron staring through the diner window, her mouth agape as the gasoline fire races back toward the gas pumps. It's distracting and an unnecessary flourish. Melanie inexplicably runs outside and becomes trapped in a phone booth. In an imaginative decision, Hitchcock shows the chaos of the attack from her perspective here, which includes one poor victim trying desparately to enter, his face ripped and bloody.   

In several scenes in the film Hitchcock used matte paintings to flesh out the background. An effective technique, it work well here. As the bird attack abates, the camera cuts to a distant high perspective. A few birds fly by into the immediate foreground, and far below we see the full carnage, the smoke billowing upward.

A storyboard version of the attack.

Once Mitch and Melanie collect Kathy and retire to the Brenner house, the story loses much of its steam. There's another hectic bird assault, and Melanie makes another dumb decision that puts her in danger. To the disappointment of some, the film ends ambiguously and we are left to imagine the fate of the main characters.

Hitchcock admittedly was in the business of entertaining his audience, not producing message films. Still, it can be fun to dissect his work to project deeper meaning. For some, The Birds may beg the question of mans' inability to control nature, and what that portends. Alternatively, a highly imaginative sort may see it as an allegory to the Cold War. For most, it is likely a fun trip back into nostalgia, when films could still scared you.

Bullitt (1968) - Peter Yates

Frank Bullitt (Steve McQueen), a San Francisco police lieutenant, is given a seemingly routine assignment: protect a key witness and mob informer in an upcoming US Senate hearing on organized crime. Bullitt has been picked by Walter Chalmers (Robert Vaughn), an ambitious politician who sees the hearings as his ticket to higher office. When the witness is targeted by professional hitmen, Chalmers holds Bullitt responsible. With his career on the line, Bullitt suspects something else is at play and digs deeper into the case.

McQueen's mustang speeds over the streets of San Francisco.

It may not seem like it today, but Bullitt was a ground-breaking film, widely popular for its exciting chase scene. It was the film that solidified McQueen's status as perhaps Hollywood's biggest superstar. Unfortunately, after this he seemed to lose some interest in acting, turning his attentions to other pursuits. He'd make some fine films later, but there were fewer of them. It may not be his best performance, for that I'd go with The Sand Pebbles. But with Bullitt, he reached the peak of his coolness.

Like its lead actor, a cool title sequence starts the action, backed by a terrific jazz score infused with moody bass, sax, and trumpet. Four men are reflected in a metal light fixture, standing outside the glass windows of an office. Their faces are lit from below, colorless and looking grim. A man is hiding inside; he tosses a smoke grenade and escapes as the men smash through the glass, shooting. We don't know it yet, but this is Johnny Ross, who's stolen $2 million from the Chicago mob and is now on the run. We soon understand that he has agreed to appear before a Senate subcommittee on organized crime.

The film likely seems tame by today's standards for police action films, but that is one of its attractions. Director Yates and McQueen's aim for authenticity included moments of routine police procedures as they conduct the investigation, including a key moment when the main characters wait expectantly for a clunky telecopier to send them important information, ancient technology today. There's not a lot of dialog, characteristic of most McQueen films, but plenty of reactive shots of McQueen and his famous blue eyes, listening and thinking. Like Bullitt, the audience will discover that the story is not as simple as it first appears, another aspect that lifts the film above most cop films of the period and since. It takes a while to understand that there is a case of mistaken identity, orchestrated by Ross to throw the mob and the cops off his trail.

Having arrived in San Francisco, Chalmers sequesters his star witness over the weekend in a seedy hotel, under protective custody of Bullitt and his men. That night, gunmen burst in after the man unlatches the door--a seemingly inexplicable action that raises Bullitt's curiosity. Like Bullitt, the viewer's initial assumption is that the mob's behind the hit, but we can't be certain. In any case, the young cop on duty is wounded before the gunmen turn their attention on the startled witness, who is sent flying through the air from a blast in the chest from a pump-action shotgun. It's bloody and violent. Yates gives the audience a hint that something is amiss when the witness cowers backward and says "Now, wait...he told me..."just before he's shot. Bullitt arrives on the scene as an ambulance rushes both victims to the hospital. One of the hit men will try to finish the job at the hospital, which leads to a breif chase. The scene serves to introduce Bullitt to the killers.

McQueen was a keenly subtle actor. A good example is a confrontation between Bullitt and Chalmers at the hospital. The star witness' life hangs in the balance. He and Bullitt watch the medical staff work feverishly from a nearby room. Chalmers makes it clear that he's holding Bullitt responsible, saying Bullitt "blew it." The detective munches a sandwich, nonchalant and avoiding eye contact until he asks, "Who else knew where he was?" The implication is that Chalmers let someone know where Ross was sequestered because the hit men knew where to look and they used Chalmers' name to get into the room. (We never find out who divulged this information. Yates leaves that to our speculation.)

It's a wonderfully tense moment. It's clear these two characters do not like one another. It also demonstrates that the two men are of different worlds, Bullitt a blue-collar, no-nonsense cop; Chalmers smooth and used to the trappings of wealth and influence. He has friends in high places and knows how to pull strings. Bullitt says, "Look, you work your side of the street, and I'll work mine."

"Who else knew where he was?"

Vaughn, usually a limited actor, oozes slime. He's perfect as a politician lacking integrity. He'll use anyone to get ahead, including the San Francisco police department. Later, he confronts Bullitt's boss, Captain Bennett (Simon Oakland), interrupting the family on their way to church. Oakland fits his role nicely, just who you'd want in an experienced police captain: big, rough, and able to take care of himself. Bullitt has a rebellish streak about him, but Bennett is more used to politics and thus more tolerant of men like Chalmers. Still, he's loyal to his own men, and partially as a result of this confrontation the captain gives Bullitt a long leash to solve the case. When later, the victim dies and Bennett learns that Bullitt has stolen the body to prevent Chalmers from closing down the case, he protects his subordinate.

The seminal chase scene is the film's most memorable sequence. At more than nine minutes, it seems shorter. For shear excitement, it was surpassed just three years later by The French Connection, but at the time, it was as thrilling a chase as had ever been filmed, particularly given the hilly terrain of San Francisco. The editing is magnificent and, more than any other sequence, likely secured Frank Keller the film's only Oscar.

Bullitt, driving a green Ford Mustang, notices he is being tailed by two men in a Dodge Charger. Figuring they are ones who struck at the hotel--they don't know their target is dead and hope that Bullitt leads them to the man--he drives normally into a residential section of the city. Anyone familiar with San Francisco will notice certain landmarks, such as Coit Tower, but the ensuing chase takes place in more than one area. The best moment in the film occurs here: the hit men, having lost sight of Bullitt, drive slowly over a hill, looking up side streets as they head down the other side. When the driver glances to his rear-view mirror, Bullitt's car comes over the hill behind--the hunter has become the hunted. The Charger stops at an intersection and the camera cuts to the driver's waist; he buckles his seat belt and you know he's about to put the pedal to metal.

Squealing and smoking his tires, he takes off with Bullitt in hot pursuit. Suddenly, both cars are soaring over hills, catching air with all four tires, sliding dangerously through intersections, and laying rubber around the turns. Here Yates made a great decision to dispense with any musical score. The sounds of the revving engines and the cars flying at speeds in excess of 100 miles an hour provide more than enough drama. Yates also uses plenty of closeups to show the tension on the face of the drivers. If there are no near misses quite as close as The French Connection and the baby carriage, there is still some fine stunt driving involved where the two cars narrowly dodge around oncoming traffic. The significance of the sequence is that it showed film-makers it was possible to stage such a high-speed race in the middle of a city. McQueen reportedly did most of his own driving.

Eventually the two cars hit the highway; they careen and swerve into one another at excessive speed; Bullitt dodges a few shotgun blasts; and the bad guys lose control of their vehicle and crash into a roadside gas station to ignite a thoroughly satisfying fireball. The chase caught the attention of the male audience of the day. Chargers and Mustangs were now the car to own.

Jacqueline Bisset has a few scenes as Bullitt's girlfriend to give the detective a human side. She fears his work will desensitize him and strip him of emotion. If her presence isn't necessary for the film, it doesn't detract from it. Besides, she's extremely attractive. There's also an interesting moment when Bullitt stops into a small grocery and grabs six TV dinners. I like these little throw-away scenes, which help give the character depth.

Bullitt consoles his girlfriend after she sees a murder victim.

After some dogged detective work, Bullitt figures out that Ross hired an impostor to pose as himself -- the man killed in the hotel attack. A search of that man's luggage reveals that airline tickets to Rome are missing. Bullitt hurries to the airport to confront the real Ross. There's another confrontation with Chalmers, who still wants Ross to testify. He condescendingly says to Bullitt, "Come on, now. Don't be naive, Lieutenant. We both know how careers are made. Integrity is something you sell the public." Bullitt responds with disgust: "You sell whatever you want, but don't sell it here tonight." Chalmers urges him to compromise. Bullitt, angry that Ross was responsible for getting his man shot, utters the film's signature line: "Bullshit."

Yates and McQueen stage a suspenseful foot chase, where McQueen runs beneath jet liners as they taxi down the runway. It looks dangerous and the camera makes sure that you know it's really McQueen. There's a brief gun battle as Ross tries to escape, and Bullitt finally gets his man.

Far superior to the Dirty Harry franchise, which started just three years later, Bullitt reflects Peter Yates' considerable talent to bring realism to film. Frank Bullitt is a real cop, dedicated but not infallible. Harry Callahan is almost a superman. Yates would direct another realistic crime film, the terrific The Friends of Eddie Coyle, in 1973. Not as well known as Bullitt, it contains Robert Mitchum's finest late career performance. Told from the perspective of Mitchum's character, a man who gets in over his head, it is a gritty and uncompromising portrayal of the desperate life of a small time hood. No complaints, as Mitchum is great, but I would have loved to have seen McQueen in the role.

Stagecoach (1939) -- John Ford

Geronimo is on the warpath, cutting telegraph lines and burning isolated settlements. Danger awaits the nine passengers of a stagecoach as it attempts to drive to Lordsburg, much of the way without cavalry escort. The odds against them, each has their own reason for making the trip.

The stage to Lordsburg.

Director John Ford had dabbled in Westerns before Stagecoach, most notably with the critically acclaimed silent film The Iron Horse in 1924. And Western films had garnered some success with movie-goers, most notably 1931's Best Picture, Cimmaron. But in the intervening years, the genre had been relegated mostly to cheaply made B pictures. "Oaters" just weren't considered serious films. All that changed with Stagecoach in 1939. One of America's premiere directors showed audiences that the genre was more than horse chases and gun play; it could explore adult relationships and offer riveting adventure and drama.

There are lot of reasons why this splendid film is considered a classic, notably its tight story line, the Oscar nominated cinematography, a superb action and stunt sequence, and its wonderful score of American folk standards. And though Ford wouldn't know it at the time, it introduced two American film icons: John Wayne in his breakout starring role, and the buttes of Monument Valley, the most majestic of Western settings. All in all, it's in the handful of best Westerns ever made.

Under attack!

The ensemble cast includes vivid characters that became Western stereotypes--a testament to the script and the performances of the actors. It also has an irresistible appeal for audiences, i.e., a small group of diverse men and women under severe pressure, some outcasts seeking some type of redemption. They reflect everyday society, with some good guys, some bad ones, and a few you aren't sure of. Wayne is Ringo, a prison escapee on his way to avenge the death of his father and brother; Claire Trevor is a girl of ill-repute with a heart of gold (Dallas); Thomas Mitchell, a doctor, is a drunk (Doc Boone); John Carradine is a Southern gambler (Hatfield); Donald Meeks, whose name fits his character perfectly, is a nervous and mild whiskey drummer (Mr. Peacock); Berton Churchill is a banker and embezzler (Gatewood); and Andy Devine (Buck) is a reluctant stage driver. Along for the ride are Louise Platt, a refined Southern belle (Lucy), pregnant and on her way to meet her officer husband; and George Bancroft (Curly), the steady marshal who decides to ride shotgun.

"We're the victims of a foul disease called social prejudice, my child." 

Director Ford demonstrates wonderful pacing. He tells the story in essentially four acts, first introducing the characters in the town of Tonto. With the exception of Wayne, we meet them all here and in remarkably short order are led to understand their respective class distinctions. Dallas is being run out of town by the ladies of the Law and Order League, a group of self-righteous prudes and old biddies. Doc Boone sees them for what they are and has a kinship with the prostitute. His landlady has had him evicted for failure to pay his rent. Boone provides the film's humor. He scowls and says in a feigned theatrical voice, "Is this the face that wrecked 1000 ships and burned the towerless tops of Illium? Farewell, fair Helen." Things start to look up for the inebriate when he learns that Peacock is taking the stage with his satchel of samples.

The stage encounters Ringo on the way. Standing beside the trail, he flags down the coach with a rifle shot. Ford uses a great zoom close-up of Wayne. The marshal puts him under arrest, and he surrenders his rifle as the cavalry escort rides up. Viewers who know Wayne only from the 60's and 70's, and think of him as an overweight, past-his-prime cowboy actor, may be surprised at how handsome and vigorous he looks. Just 32  here, lean and athletic, it's easy to understand how he became a huge star. 

Inside the coach, the smoke from Doc Boone's cigar is bothersome. The gambler Hatfield, who came along to protect Lucy, insists that he put it out. Doc apologizes to Lucy: "Excuse me ma'am. Being so partial to the weed myself, I sometimes forget that it disagrees with others." Doc is courteous to Lucy, but feels no such obligation when it comes to Hatfield:

Hatfield: A gentleman doesn't smoke in the presence of a lady.
Doc Boone: Three weeks ago, I took a bullet out of a man who was shot by a gentleman. The bullet was in his back!
Hatfield (feeling insulted): You mean to insinuate...
Ringo Kid (to keep the peace): Sit down mister. Doc don't mean no harm.

Of course, 1939 is generally considered Hollywood's best year. Thomas Mitchell was right in the middle of several signature films, showing his mettle as a supporting actor, and surely accumulating one of the greatest single year resumes in history. Besides Stagecoach, he appeared in Gone With the Wind, Only Angels Have Wings, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. His humorous performance here won him one of the film's two Oscars. It was well deserved.

Dallas and Ringo, two misfits made for each other.

We learn more about the characters when they stop at the Dry Fork way station for dinner. Lucy expects to meet her husband here, but he has already left for Apache Wells, their next stop. When the food is served the other passengers shun Dallas, but Ringo thinks he's the cause for their reaction,  saying, "Well, I guess you can't break out of prison and into society in the same week."

After a vote they continue their trip, stopping overnight at Apache Wells. Lucy goes into labor and gives birth, attended to by Boone, who shows he's still a competent physician when filled with enough coffee.  By now Ringo and Dallas have begun to fall in love. He asks her to marry him; she agrees, provided he escape instead of seeking vengeance against Luke Plummer, the man who murdered his father and brother. But when he sees Indian smoke signals in the distance, he knows it's too late. The stage makes a mad dash for Lordsburg, forging a swift river along the way in a visually interesting sequence before being assaulted by Indians.

The attack is the most memorable sequence with the great stunt work of famed stuntman Yakima Canutt, who twice risks his life. Ford introduces the threat with a marvelous sound effect. Thinking they have passed the danger point, Doc Boone proposes a toast. As he takes a swig from a bottle, an arrow zips loudly into the window and you hear the thunk as it embeds itself into Peacock's chest. The music swells and the chase is on. The horses pull frantically across the dry alkali flats, pursued by ferocious warriors, whooping like banshees and banishing their weapons. One brave jumps from his mount onto the lead horses, trying to stop the coach. Ringo, now riding atop the coach, shoots him, and the Indian (Canutt) falls beneath the horses' hooves, where he struggles to hang onto the rig's shaft as he drags along the ground. He finally loses his grip as the coach rolls over his prone body. Ford pans the camera back to let you know it was real man and not a dummy--the wounded Indian rolls over and pushes himself up to his knees.

When Buck is shot in the shoulder and loses the reins, the stage begins to slow. Ringo (Canutt again) leaps to the rescue, landing on the wheel team, then forward to the swing team, and finally forward again to the lead team, where he gets control of the animals. 

Yakima Canutt as Ringo leaps to the rescue.

Inside the coach ammunition has run out. Hatfield has saved one bullet and in a close-up aims his pistol at Lucy's head as she prays, planning to save the woman from being ravaged and tortured by the Apaches. A gunshot rings out; the pistol drops as Hatfield is killed by the Indians. A bugle sounds and the cavalry ride to the rescue.

The stunt work here includes several dangerous looking falls by riders from the horses. The entire sequence showcases the wonderful film editing by Otto Lovering, who also earned an Oscar nomination.



Finally in Lordsburg, lawmen arrest Gatewood and retrieve his $50,000. The marshal, whose symphathies are clear throughout, gives Ringo ten minutes to say goodbye to Dallas and confront the Plummers. Ringo escorts the girl home and learns she's a prostitute. Plummer is playing cards in a saloon and hears that Ringo is in town. He holds a "dead man's hand," aces in eights -- the same hand held by Wild Bill Hickok when murdered.

Ford sets up the shootout in a thrilling manner. Doc Boone, his self-respect renewed, refuses to let Luke leave the saloon with a shotgun; the editor of the Lordsburg newspaper predicts the morning's headlines: "The Ringo Kid was killed on Main Street in Lordsburg tonight, and among the additional dead were...;" then three Plummers advance toward the camera, moving forward cautiously down a dark street as Ringo's dark silhouette comes into focus in the foreground. From a low camera angle, Ringo throws himself to the ground while firing three shots. Dallas, listening where Ringo left her, fears the worst. A cut to Luke shows him stagger through the swinging doors of a saloon, presumably the victor, but he falls dead. Then Ringo appears out of the mist and embraces Dallas.

In a fitting ending, Ford has the marshal let Ringo go instead of arresting him, sending him and Dallas to Mexico in a buckboard. Doc Boone waxes philosophically, giving a final observation about civilization and respectability:

Doc Boone: Well, they're saved from the blessings of civilization.
Curley: Yeah. (Curley removes his sheriff's badge.) Doc? I'll buy ya a drink.
Doc Boone: (After a long pause) Just one.

Dudley Nichols wrote the terrific screenplay. He had won an Oscar with Ford just four years earlier with The Informer, and was a frequent collaborator with the director. The black and white cinematography received an Oscar nomination as did Ford for directing, and the film for Best Picture.

This is one of the earliest films I know where the director employed specific music to represent the characters. "I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair, "plays over scenes with Louise Platt as Lucy, and "Shall We Gather at the River?" connotes Doc Boone.

The stage in Monument Valley.

Ford made films in all kinds of genres, but his Westerns best demonstate his incomparable abilty to weave a landscape into his story. In Stagecoach, for most of the film the nine passengers are isolated in a harsh, threatening environment. The sandstone formations of Monument Valley tower above them, and the land is dry and unforgiving, and filled with danger. Survival depends on courage and a man's wits. Ford is saying that the taming of the West was not for the faint of heart. What better place to set this story?

Ford and Wayne, of course, would forge the most successful director/actor relationship in Hollywood history. They would make 14 films together. Monument Valley became Ford's favorite location to film. He returned in 1946 for My Darling Clementine with Henry Fonda; the Cavalry Trilogy (1948-1950) and The Searchers (1956) with Wayne; and finished with Cheyenne Autumn with Richard Widmark in 1964.

The Great John Ford about the time of Stagecoach.

John Ford won four Oscars for Best Director, a record:

• The Informer 1935
• The Grapes of Wrath 1940
• How Green Was My Valley 1942
• The Quiet Man 1952

A 1966 remake pales in comparison, though is still worth a watch. Its biggest problem is the casting of Alex Cord as Ringo. The cast does have a few actors that I always enjoy in films: Keenan Wynn, Slim Pickens, and Van Heflin.

The Gold Rush (1925) -- Charlie Chaplin

Charlie Chaplin is perhaps the most remarkable film-maker. A one-man show so unequaled in his talent and ability to touch an audience it is astounding. His best films are beautiful and poignant as no one ever combined comedy and pathos as well. He did it all: acting, writing, directing, and often, scoring his films. And like Keaton and Lloyd, he possessed great athleticism that he put to good use on screen. The Gold Rush is one of his best. It came just a quarter-century after the actual events of the period depicted, so it would have had a contemporary feel for most of its original audience. Chaplin re-released the film in 1942, this time with a few sound effects and narration in place of several of the title cards. That version is fine but loses some of the magic of the full silent film, which is the point of watching these early films. You want to marvel at how the actors emote with just their faces and capture as best you can the experience of the original audience.

Chaplin in the guise of the Little Tramp is a lone prospector during the Great Gold Rush to Alaska in 1898. It's a hard life with intense cold, hunger, disappointment, and perhaps worst of all, loneliness. The story follows him as he interacts with two other fortune-hunters: Big Jim McKay (Mark Swain) and Black Larsen (Tom Murray), a wanted scoundrel; and he falls in love with a dance-hall girl (Georgia Hale).

In the spectacular opening scene, a long line of hundreds of prospectors climb up a steep mountain through the snow-covered Chilkoot Pass on the way to the gold fields. Charlie soon appears with his familiar cane and bowler, and his absurdly baggy pants, totally unprepared for the rigors of the far North, and he immediately gets caught in a storm and stumbles blindly along. At the same time, Big Jim, a burly prospector who looks like he belongs in the environment, hits pay dirt. The same storm sends his tent flying, pulling him behind. Both men find themselves at Black Larsen's cabin. Larsen is wanted by the law, and we will soon get confirmation that he is indeed a dangerous man.

Chaplin never let his audience wait too long for a sight gag. Larsen orders Chaplin out, but when he opens the door, the little guy can't compete with the powerful howling wind. Charlie leans into it, but his feet can make no progress. He slides backward as if on ice. Next, Larsen and Big Jim wrestle over a rifle. Charlie tries frantically to keep out of the way, jumping one way or the other, but the barrel always seems to point directly at him. At one point he gets trapped behind a table and squeezed into  a corner. Big Jim's superior strength finally overpowers Black Larsen and the three settle down to weather the storm. Soon, their food gives out. They draw lots and Black Larsen goes for food.

In a classic scene, the two remaining fellows enjoy an unusual Thanksgiving dinner as they face starvation--one of Charlie's big flat shoes. It's the most memorable scene in the film, because it's funny and also because it says something about Chaplin's destitute childhood, where humor may have been the last defense against utter despair. They treat the meal as a delicacy. Charlie bastes the boot like a turkey and sharpens his knife before carefully carving the leather upper from the sole and hobnails, which he splits between the two of them. Charlie swirls the laces on his fork like a long piece of spaghetti and sucks the nails as if he were savoring the last remnant of meat from the bones of a fish or some delicious game. (The boot was actually black licorice). 

Big Jim later hallucinates, seeing Charlie as a big chicken. Swain does a wonderful job here, one moment looking deliriously happy, clucking at Charlie to lure him closer, the next frightened by his narrow mistake.

Charlie manages to shoot a black bear, providing them provisions until the storm abates. When it does, the two friends part ways. In the meantime, Black Larsen has killed two police officers and stumbled unto Big Jim's claim. Big Jim arrives and the two burly fellows struggle; Larsen knocks Jim cold with a shovel, but is soon killed in an avalanche--a nifty special effect.


Charlie walks into a mining boom town and meets Georgia, a beautiful dance-hall girl and falls in love. It's never explicit, but she is likely a woman of ill-repute. Chaplin devised a wonderful set here, as the dance hall is just what you'd expect: a great log building with a long bar, unshaven and unkempt prospectors with drooping mustaches who swill beer--brave men with weathered faces who risk their lives, and thus need an outlet. A piano stands in the corner, there is lots of smoke, and plenty of flirty girls, urging the lonely men to buy them a drink. Charlie looks pathetically out of place. He finds a photograph of Georgia and stuffs it in his shirt. To tease another man, she asks him to dance. He struggles to keep his pants from falling and grabs a rope to tie them up, not knowing it's a dog's leash.

Charlie, completely smitten, is lucky to ingratiate himself with another miner who asks him to watch his cabin while he hunts for gold. By happenstance, he meets Georgia again and invites her and her friends to a New Year's Eve dinner. She accepts on a lark after finding the photograph that Charlie had fond and kept hidden under his pillow. The night arrives and Charlie has made elaborate preparations, party gifts, candles, napkins, and a heart-shaped card at Georgia's place with "To My Love" written on it. A chicken is roasting in the oven. While waiting, he falls asleep, beginning one of Chaplin's most famous sequences--"The Dance of the Rolls." To entertain his guests he jabs two French bread rolls with forks and does a pantomime ballet-dance, his face smiling above so it looks like a man with a giant head. It appears as if the rolls are his boots. It is silly to be sure, but creatively pure magic.

Charlie awakens, and it's obvious Georgia has forgotten or was not serious. Heart-broken and feeling foolish, he hears singing and gunshots coming from the town. He walks forlornly to the saloon where revelers are singing "Auld Lang Syne," and sadly stares through the window. The scene hits home for anyone who has ever felt out-of-place or rejected by love. Poor Charlie. Georgia eventually remembers her promise and goes to the cabin, but Charlie is long gone. She sees the table and realizes the effort Charlie had gone to, and feels pity--the first sign that perhaps she has a heart.

There's a wonderful human moment during the song where the director Chaplin conveys real life. Some in the crowd dab their eyes, others look far away, thinking of something or someone from their past. Charlie listens and you see him swallow. It's a reminder that that season isn't always a happy one.

Big Jim has survived Black Larsen's attack. He comes to town still suffering from the blow to his head; he can't remember the location of his mine, but knows it's near his cabin. When he sees Charlie, he excitedly tells him he will make him rich if Charlie helps him locate the cabin. They do, but another storm comes up that night, pushing the cabin to the precipice of a high cliff, where it hangs precariously in balance. In the morning they wake up, blissfully ignorant of their predicament.

Another funny bit follows as the two walk from one side of the floor to the other, nearly tipping the cabin off the cliff. At first Charlie thinks it's his stomach but he soon opens the door to investigate. Fortunately, he clings to the door nob as he hangs there, feet dangling in mid-air until he manages to climb back in to safety. This is another fine special effect for its day and an apparent hair-raising sequence. The partners eventually survive, saved by a pick ax that miraculously gets sunk right where Big Jim's gold lies buried in the snow. They scramble up the floor's steep incline to safety, Charlie just jumping clear before the building disappears over the edge.

The next scene finds Charlie and Big Jim dressed to the nines with silk top hats, spats, mink coats, and puffing on big cigars, enjoying their new lives as millionaires. They are in first-class aboard a ship returning home from Alaska. Members of the Press ask Charlie to pose for a photograph. They want to do a rags-to-riches story. He dons his old ragged tramp clothes and notices his picture of Georgia. He sighs wistfully and a title card reads: "Everything but Georgia." He doesn't know it, but she is on the same boat as a steerage passenger.

While posing for the photographer, Charlie accidentally falls down a stairwell, landing in steerage to find Georgia sitting next to a large coil of rope. When she hears that ship officers are searching for a stow-away, she naturally assumes it's Charlie they are after. She tries to hide him, then offers to pay his fare. He reveals the truth--he is now rich. He takes her in his arms, and implying that she is his fiancee, invites the photographers to take an engagement picture of them. The photographers are pleased. A title card says: "Gee! This will make a wonderful story." The couple pose as long as they can stand it, but their hearts are overflowing and they move to kiss. The photographer shouts at them: "Oh! You've spoilt the picture," as the final image fades. (Note, the 1942 version omits the kiss, as Chaplin had by then long ended his relationship with Hale).

Swain, who plays Big Jim is a fine comedian in his own right. His wide-eyed looks of astonishment during the tilting cabin scene are quite funny. He made well over 150 films, mostly silent shorts, and started with Mack Sennett of Keystone Kops fame. He had worked with Chaplin before, in 1921's The Idle Class, 1922's Pay Day, 1923's The Pilgrim. And Hale is a real beauty. I loved her period wardrobe, particularly the fur hat. She seems to embody the 1920's flapper. Like so many other silent performers, she never made it to talkies. 

This film was selected to the National Film Registry, Library of Congress, in 1992.