The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) - John Ford

Ransom Stoddard's introduction to the Wild West. 
This scene never appeared in the final cut.  

Colorado is on the cusp of statehood, a place where a man with ambition can make something of himself. Ranse Stoddard (James Stewart) is such a man. He has come west with his law books and idealism, hoping to help bring law and order to the territory. But it is still the Wild West, and Stoddard's stagecoach is waylaid by three outlaws, one the infamous Liberty Valance (Lee Marvin). When Stoddard protests, Valance whips him savagely, leaving him on the trail to die. He is rescued by Tom Doniphon (John Wayne), a local rancher, and his reliable servant, Pompey (Woody Strode ), who take him into Shinbone where he is nursed back to health by Hallie (Vera Miles), the girl Doniphon hopes to marry.

Stoddard befriends Dutton Peabody (Edmund O'Brien), the publisher/editor of the local newspaper, the Shinbone Star. Peabody is one of Shinbone's leading citizens and a vocal proponent for statehood. He writes a harsh editorial decrying Valance and his ilk, men who continue to terrorize the town and are an impetus to progress. Valance seeks revenge by ransacking the newspaper office and lashing the newspaperman with his whip. Stoddard, though no hand with a gun, challenges the drunken outlaw to a fight. The outcome will change the lives of each character, and create a legend.

This is John Ford's last great Western, and in some ways his most resonating. It contains the most memorable line of any of his films: "This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." It is an acute and accurate statement on how history comes into being. Over time, facts blur, or are intentionally hidden, and what we think happened may be only partially correct, or totally wrong for that matter.

Ford cleverly tells the story as a flashback. It begins with Stoddard, now a state senator, returning to Shinbone decades after the events of the story. He has come with his wife, Hallie, to attend the funeral of an old friend, Tom Doniphon. When asked by a reporter who Doniphon was, Stoddard tells the tale.

A poignant scene takes place as Hallie visits Doniphon's ranch outside of town where she digs up a cactus rose. The ranch house is a burnt out shell. We will later learn why. On retuning to town she and her husband go to the undertaker. In a nice touch, Ford has Hallie stop abruptly and take a set back on seeing the plain wooden coffin. When Rance looks inside, he admonishes the undertaker for stealing the boots. It's an intriguing beginning, one that compels the viewer to wonder who Doniphon was and what his death has to do with the senator.

Lee Marvin as the dangerous Liberty Valance.

Wayne is the commanding presence in the film. In his familiar cadence, he tells Stoddard that Valance "is the toughest man south of the Picketwire ... next to me."  Marvin is truly menacing as the villain. The two have a tense confrontation in a restaurant when Valance trips Stoddard, working as a waiter and dishwasher. A plate of steak and potatoes crashes to the floor. Like all bullies, Valance backs down when challenged. Doniphon is the only one in town with courage to stand up to the outlaw, and it's clear Valance fears him.

Valance: You lookin' for trouble, Doniphon?
Doniphon: You aim to help me find some?

Edmund O'Brien has fun as the dour editor, who's too smart and reckless for his own good. He drinks too much and sets himself up for a beating from Valance. O'Brien more or less recreated the character six years later in Sam Peckinpah's brilliant The Wild Bunch.

There are no silly fistfights here similar to that Ford injected into The Searchers, but he does not altogether neglect his usual dose of humor, putting into the script.

Peabody: [during voting for the territorial convention] I'll have the usual, Jack.
Barman: The bar is closed, Mister Editor, during voting.
Peabody: Bar's closed?
Doniphon: You can blame your lawyer friend. He says that's one of the "Fundamental laws of democracy." No exception.
Peabody: No exceptions for the working press? Why, that's carrying democracy much too far!

Like all Ford films, the supporting cast is terrific and familiar. John Quinlan as a Scandinavian, craggy-faced John Pennich as a bartender, John Carradine, and Andy Devine as the timid sheriff are from Ford's often-used stock company. Marvin's henchmen are Lee Van Cleef and Strother Martin.

Valance and his gang.

Vera Miles is lovely as Hallie. She pines for Tom, but he has trouble adequately expressing his love. The best he can do is give her a cactus flower, but it clear by his mannerisms and long looks that he loves her. Ranse's arrival and demeanor presents a clear contrast. Tom represents the past, a West still violent and unrefined. Ranse, intelligent and considerably more cultured, represents the future. As Ranse's star begins to rise, Hallie latches on. The relationship between these three characters is a sad one. Ranse knows of Tom's feelings for the girl. Moreover, he is indebted to the man for saving his life, not once, but as it will turn out, twice. It is hard to like this character. Were it not for the fact he's finally the one to challenge Valance, he borders on contemptible, both for not stepping aside when it comes to Hallie, and for living a lie. Whether by intent or happenstance (probably the latter), it's easy to interpret the Ranse character as a statement by Ford that politicians can't be trusted; they put career advancement ahead of integrity.

Ranse finds out that Hallie placed a cactus rose on Tom's coffin, returning the gift Tom had given her many years earlier, shown in the flashback. Perhaps Tom was her true love after all and you and Ranse wonder if Hallie doesn't think she made the wrong choice. The ticket-taker then compliments the senator, saying: "Nothing's too good for the man who shot Liberty Valance." A hint of shame passes over Ranse's face. We never find out if Hallie knows the truth.          

Director Ford always had a fine human touch. It's one aspect of his films that make them so enjoyable and touching: Ward Bond's drink of coffee in The Searchers; Dick Foran's serenade and the noncoms' dance sequence in Fort Apache, the gift of a watch in She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, the barn-raising and dance in My Darling Clementine. Ford loved the romance and tradition of the Old West. The cactus rose appearing on Tom's coffin is another such subtle moment. We never see Hallie place it there.  

A second flashback is embedded in Stoddard's story, which reveals what really happened the night Valance was gunned down.

Doniphon cues Stoddard in on who really shot Liberty Valance. 

The story here is so good, both visually and in the performances, that you don't notice, or at least don't mind so much, that most of it was shot on a Hollywood sound stage rather than on location. Ford nearly single-handily is responsible for elevating the Western film to its iconic status, in large part by setting his action in majestic, panoramic vistas. Nine of his westerns feature the beautiful Monument Valley as a backdrop. (He would spectacularly return to the location once more after this film with 1964's Cheyenne Autumn.) Still, one or two outdoor moments would have enhanced the film, perhaps just a brief shot of Valance and his men crossing the river at dusk, on their way into Shinbone.

Besides the unexciting set, the only flaw in the film is Stewart; 52 at the time of filming, he is about 25 years too old for his character. It's particularly glaring since he's supposed to be a recent law graduate, with no legal experience. Of course, the same might be said of Wayne, but there's considerably more leeway with his character; a strong rancher would have needed to live in the Wild West a while before gaining his level of confidence and reputation. The 32-year difference between Wayne and Miles then doesn't seem quite so disturbing.

Ford rarely did much movement with the camera, letting the scene and characters tell the story. But in one instance here he employs a closeup. As Valance prepares to whip the prone Stoddard, the camera pulls in tight. Stoddard drops from the frame. We see Valance from the waist up inflict several strikes. Only later do we see the bloody effects. Another director might have been more gratuitous. Ford lets the viewer's imagination paint the scene. Ford understood the value of understatement.

And the decision to film in black and white was a wise one, even if forced on the director for financial reasons or to create a younger look for the leads. It gives the film an appropriate feel and mood. Edith Head designed the costumes, something you rarely notice in a Western. She was nominated for an Oscar, and the Duke does look terrific in spats and a ten-gallon hat.

Director John Ford with his two stars.

William Clothier handled the cinematography. A skilled cameraman, particularly with the Western genre, he was a long-time collaborator with Wayne, having been nominated for an Oscar for The Alamo. He'd work with Ford again on Cheyenne Autumn and earn a second nomination.

Ford was 68 when he made this film, an age when most successful directors had already hung up their megaphone. It was an extraordinary effort.

Pop singer Gene Pitney released a catchy song in 1962 based on the film. You can listen to it below. The film was named to the National Registry in 2007.

Night and the City (1950) - Jules Dassin

Most people think of New York or Los Angeles when it comes to film noir, but director Jules Dassin set his dramatic story in the east end of London. It is populated with a sorry group of conniving characters. With the exception of an old wrestler who considers his sport art, the men and women here have little concern with morality and ethics. Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark) is the doomed protagonist, a reprehensible, small-time hustler whose plans never pan out. With no conscience to speak of, Fabian only cares about becoming "somebody." He is headed for trouble. In an early scene we see him rifling through his girlfriend's purse. It's clearly not the first time.

A man on the run. 

Fabian works for Philip Nosseross (Francis Sullivan) as a club tout, luring innocent customers to the Silver Fox night club. Nosseross is a bigger fish in the London underworld. He desperately loves his wife, Helen, but because she finds him repulsive, he is forlorn and gripped by frustration. He tries to buy her affections with the gift of a fur, but she rejects him, leaving him caressing the fur instead, taking in the scent of her perfume.

Fabian's luck looks to take a sudden turn for the better when he meets Gregorius, a one-time world champion Greco-Roman wrestler who's mentoring a promising young athlete. Gregorius hates freestyle wrestling. Though it packs in blood-thirsty customers, he views it as mere entertainment and fake. He says it is for clowns. His son, Kristo, is kingpin of the London wrestling business, but he promotes only freestyle. Fabian cons Gregorius into letting him promote a match between his young charge and a well-known local bruiser, The Strangler. To bankroll the contest, he comes to Nosseross, who agrees, provided Fabian can match his investment. Helen and Fabian then strike a backroom deal. She gives him his share of the money--by selling the fur stole--in exchange for Fabian securing her a liquor license so she can leave her husband to open her own club. Nosseross discovers the scheme, and may even suspect Fabian is carrying on an affair with his wife. He begins to engineer the fall of the ambitious employee.

Director Jules Dassin already had a solid Hollywood resume of winning film noir to his credit (Thieves' Highway, 1949; The Naked City, 1948; and Brute Force, 1947), when he went to London to film Night and the City. Like those earlier noirs, the cinematography here is wonderful, highly effective in creating a mood of despair and impending tragedy. The film opens with a great high-angle shot of Fabian running through dark London streets. Shadows play against the buildings and the wet pavement, and a hectic score accompanies the fast-paced action. Someone is after him. Fabian loses his carnation but stops in flight to retrieve it and stick it back in his lapel. An act of vanity, it gives you a key to the man's personality. He just manages a narrow escape from danger, slipping unseen into the stairwell of his girlfriend's apartment, Mary, played by Gene Tierney. Fabian is always running, either from honest work or a pursuer. A second, even more frenzied chase, will bookend the film's action. All in all, this opening is a brilliant example of the noir style.

Richard Widmark and Gene Tierney. 

Throughout the film, Dassin and cameraman Max Greene, make good use of selective closeups, creating an atmosphere of claustrophobia and fear, reminiscent of Orson Welles' technique in Touch of Evil. The lighting is particularly effective for Sullivan as Nosseross. He appears as a hulking menace, with heavy jowls and gone to fat, similar to Welles' Hank Quinlan. His office is crisscrossed with windows, suggesting he lives in a cage. His is a terrific performance, and a surprising one if you're only familiar with the actor from David Lean's late 1940's Dickens' films Great Expectations and Oliver Twist.

And this is Widmark's best career performance. Oozing with nervous energy throughout, he perfectly captures the complicated emotions of his deeply flawed character, a selfish bastard with no allegiance to anyone. Alternately infantile and boisterous, he mopes like a scolded child when Mary catches him in the act of stealing, and crows like a rooster when he thinks he's finally hit the big time. Watch his face in the scene where Gregorius scolds his son, Kristo, warning him not to threaten his new partner. Fabian stands protected, looking over Gregorius' shoulder, leering at the son. In two different scenes, Widmark undergoes wild mood swings, going from joy to panic in the span of a few moments. When euphoric, Widmark's signature, slightly crazed, chortle can be heard, and when desperate, his brow beads wet with perspiration, his eyes grow wild and glassy. The best sequence occurs when Nosseross retracts his support, explaining earlier that he would give Fabian "the sharp edge of the knife." Widmark had arrived jubilant at the Silver Fox, almost dancing, beside himself with glee. He taps some snare drums and cymbals while he informs Nosseross that he's ready to stage the fight. Nosseross places a call to Kristo, and tells Fabian that no one will give him an arena. "You have it all Harry Fabian," he says with sarcasm, "but you're a dead man." Fabian, shocked by the betrayal, hurries out, fearing he's now a marked man. Nosseross strikes the same cymbal for emphasis.

It seems a complicated plot, with double-crosses aplenty, but Dassin has filmed it so the audience understands what's going on, and what motivates each character.

Fabian arrives at his gym where The Strangler and his manager await to sign a contract. Gregorius and his pupil practice in the ring. The Strangler has been drinking. He baits Gregorious into a fight. It's a brutal contest. The Strangler is a dirty fighter. His tactics run to face-gouging and vicious, closed-fist punches. Gregorius uses a crushing bear hug. It is one of best shot athletic sequences ever filmed. Much of the credit here must go to Nick DeMaggio, the film editor. His resume includes Dassin's Thieves' Highway and another Widmark hit, Pickup on South Street. Mike Mazurki plays The Strangler. A familiar face, he excelled at playing thugs and "muscle" in gangster films and crime dramas. At 6'5'', with a craggy face and furrowed brow, it's perfect casting. Stanislaus Zbyszko plays Gregorious. A one-time world-class wrestler, it is his only film appearance. (Dassin plucked him from a New Jersey chicken farm for the role.) A giant round battle-scarred bulk of muscle, he stood 5'8' and was 71 at filming. Mazurki was just 43.

Two brutes in the ring.

SPOILERS AHEAD: The outcome of the match sends Fabian into hiding. Kristo orders his henchmen to find him.  Another feverish chase ensues and Fabian meets a grim ending at the hands of The Strangler, who lives up to his moniker and tosses his victim into the river. Krisco watches from a bridge, and flicks his cigarette butt on the body as it floats like garbage beneath him.

Phillip Nosseross ends no better off. When Helen leaves him for Fabian, he tells her she doesn't know what she's walking into. She sneers with contempt and replies, "I know what I'm walking out of." The cuckolded husband is devastated and takes his own life. Helen later learns that her license is a forgery. She returns to the Silver Fox to find her husband has cut her from his will. Destined for disappointment, she's the closest thing we have to a femme fatale in the film.

Jules Dassin.

Dassin was a victim of the Communist witch-hunt in America following World War. He fled the States with the help of Darrel Zanuck to make this film and would continue his work in the genre from France with Rififi in 1955, a seminal heist move. He was among the many wrongly persecuted artists by the HUAC. It's a shame, because he lost a few good years, and his already strong canon of films would have been even more impressive.

Sweet Smell of Success (1957) -- Alexander MacKendick

What makes New York City the most interesting metropolis in film is its dark side and Sweet Smell of Success opens up the 1950s underbelly of the place in all its fascinating ugliness. 

Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis) is an unscrupulous press agent who wants to get "way up high, where it's always balmy." Right now he's one of the little guys; the nameplate on his office door is cheaply printed and taped on. He's tired of being a lapdog and trolls his talents to J. J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster), the city's most influential columnist and gossip monger. Hunsecker wields his power, making or breaking men with a few words, from small-time comics to senators. He relies on sleazebags like Falco for the only commodity that counts in his trade, information. But he's smart enough to keep his own hands clean, at one point telling Falco that his right hand hasn't seen his left hand for thirty years.

Curtis as Falco -- his greatest performance.

It's hard to say who's slimier, Hunsecker or Falco, but Falco is willing to pimp a girlfriend to get copy for a client, saying, "Come on, baby. Do it for me." Hunsecker dotes over his kid sister like a father. When he learns she is involved with a jazz musician, he engages Falco to dig up some dirt.  

"Come on, baby. Do it for me."

Falco knows all the tricks of his dirty trade. He can be charming one minute—he's described as having a half dozen faces for the ladies—conniving and demeaning the next. He will even plant drugs on the unsuspecting boyfriend.

The story plays out in the tony clubs and restaurants of Broadway and Times Square, and on the dark, crowded, wet streets of New York. It's a wonderfully shot film by famed cameraman James Wong Howe, whose gritty black and white cinematography creates a noirish atmosphere, helped immensely by Elmer Bernstein's tense jazz score—you can almost smell the cigarette smoke and garbage cans, and feel the hot sweat running down people's backs in the jostling street vendors and crowds.    

The film's most famous scene takes place at Club 21, where Hunsecker presides over the city. In turn he humiliates a U.S. senator and Falco. It's the first time the two main characters are thrown together. Their relationship, rotten and symbiotic, is the heart of the film. (Their actors' ages work perfectly for relationship: Lancaster was 43, Curtis, 32). 

Curtis and Lancaster at 21 Club - rotten to the core.

Hunsecker knows he's the dominant partner and enjoys ripping into the sycophantic Flaco. Here's a sample of some his best lines of dialog:
  
J.J. to Falco:

"I'd hate to take a bite outta you. You're a cookie full of arsenic."

"I love this dirty town."

"You're dead, son. Get yourself buried."

Another revealing sequence occurs at Toots Shor's, a leading celebrity hot spot in New York during the 40's and 50's. Falco attempts to blackmail another columnist to incriminate the boyfriend. He fails miserably when the man rebuffs him. A chilly exchange takes place, ending when the man tells Sidney he's got the morals of a guinea pig and the scruples of a gangster. A few minutes later Falco uses those same words as if they were his own as he tries to ingratiate himself with another columnist. 

Director Alexander Mackendrick has fashioned an alluring but disgusting world of corruption. It is a fascinating look at how newspapers peddle scandal and insinuation to titillate readers. You can't help but take a peek. Unfortunately, the subject matter must have been too grim for American audiences at the time, resulting in poor box office and the curtailment of the director's career. It also failed to garner even a single Academy Award nomination. Today it is considered one of the best American films of the decade.   

Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman's script seems charged with electricity. Its great dialog is full of innuendo. A frightening example is when an old-time cop on Hunsecker's payroll threatens Falco with, "Come back here, Sidney... I wanna chastise you." Falco wisely keeps his distance—the man looks like he'd enjoy breaking a few bones. Emile Meyer plays the menacing cop. He starred in Shane four years earlier as the main antagonist. 

Tony Curtis mostly kept to costume dramas and romantic comedy his whole career. His time at the top was brief, less than ten years. He'd never remotely approach this level of performance in any other film, a perfect match of an actor to a role. It is a startling turn. When he says to his girlfriend, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! That gives you a lot of leeway...," you know he means it. Lancaster is nearly as good as the ruthless, but lonely columnist.    

Susan Harrison as Susan Hunsecker - J. J.'s sister.

Lancaster's character is loosely based on real-life gossip columnist Walter Winchell. At the height of Winchell's fame, his newspaper column was syndicated in over 2,000 newspapers worldwide, and he was read by 50 million people a day from the 1920s until the early 1960s. His Sunday night radio broadcast was heard by another 20 million people from 1930 to the late 1950s. He famously said: “I usually get my stuff from people who promised somebody else that they would keep it a secret."

The film is one of the best of the 1950's noirs. As such, you know it won't end well for Curtis and Lancaster, whose rotten character eventually knock them down a peg.

Other films shot by James Wong Howe:

• The Rose Tattoo 1955
• Picnic 1955
• Hud 1963

Another great script by Ernest Lehman:

• North by Northwest 1959

Other Films by James Wong Howe:

 •  The Rose Tattoo 1955

 •  Picnic 1955

 •  Hud 1963

Seven Days in May (1964) - John Frankenheimer

It's the height of the Cold War. Relations between the United States and the Soviet Union has the U.S. military on edge. When an unpopular president (Fredric March) negotiates a nuclear arms treaty with the enemy, he incurs the ire of the military and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who see him as soft, and playing politics with the nation's security. Its hard line chairman is General James Mattoon Scott (Burt Lancaster), a popular hero who considers the president a traitor. Scott's aide, Colonel Jiggs Casey (Kurt Douglas), comes across inexplicable and unsettling information. Convinced a military coup is afoot, he takes his suspicions to the White House. The president calls together his most trusted advisers to get to the bottom of matter and, if necessary, stop the coup before it is too late.

Fredric March as President Jordan Lyman

Seven Days in May is a fine follow-up for Director John Frankenheimer, fresh off his critically acclaimed The Manchurian Candidate. As a political thriller, it succeeds even better than its predecessor because the plot is considerably more plausible. Where Manchurian featured an over-the-top U.S. Senator and his wife hell-bent on securing the presidency through any means possible, wrapping itself in the paranoia of the Cold War period, Seven Days in May keeps it characters firmly rooted in reality. It more accurately captures the sense of foreboding and uncertainty of the age, when kids were drilled at school to duck their heads under their desks in the event of an atomic bomb attack, and Russia tried to site missiles in Cuba.

The film, based on a best-selling novel by Fletcher Knebel and Charles Bailey, is a tense thriller with great pacing, a hallmark of Frankenheimer. The plot unfolds innocently enough; Colonel Jiggs stumbles unto what ostensibly is a betting pool among certain officers for the upcoming Preakness Stakes. The junior officer who brought it to his attention is suddenly transferred. Jiggs hears of a secret military base out west, where disturbing amounts of military resources are being housed and directed. None of it makes sense. Once he takes his suspicions to the president, the pace picks up.

Because the cast and script are so good, it's easy to get caught up in the action. Not surprisingly, March is particularly effective as the beleaguered president, willing to sacrifice his political future for what he believes is in the nation's best interest. He looks and reasons like a president, at least how we might wish. His character encapsulates the message of the film when he says it's the nuclear age, and not a person or group that is the enemy. "It has killed man's faith in his ability to influence what happens to him."

A winner of two Best Actor Oscars, March gives another appropriately emotional performance, looking older than his 67 years. His face is clouded in anguish. You believe this man is under crushing pressure, and you root for him to fend off his opponents. He has two terrific scenes. The first in the living quarters of the White House, in a tense confrontation with Scott. Here we have two men, diametrically opposed and passionate, each with the firm belief that he is right.

"Then by God, run for office."

Scott: And if you want to talk about your oath of office, I'm here to tell you face to face, President Lyman, that you violated that oath when you stripped this country of its muscles - when you deliberately played upon the fear and fatigue of the people and told them they could remove that fear by the stroke of a pen. And then when this nation rejected you, lost faith in you, and began militantly to oppose you, you violated that oath by not resigning from office and turning the country over to someone who could represent the people of the United States.

President Lyman: And that would be General James Mattoon Scott, would it? I don't know whether to laugh at that kind of megalomania, or simply cry.

Scott: James Mattoon Scott, as you put it, hasn't the slightest interest in his own glorification. But he does have an abiding interest in the survival of this country.  

President Lyman: Then, by God, run for office. You have such a fervent, passionate, evangelical faith in this country - why in the name of God don't you have any faith in the system of government you're so hell-bent to protect?

The second scene is a press conference at the end of the film, with some of Knebel and Charles' strongest writing. President Lyman offers the nation a hopeful message, though an ironic one, considering that shortly after the film's release the United States found itself mired in Vietnam.

"There's been abroad in this land in recent months a whisper that we have somehow lost our greatness, that we do not have the strength to win without war the struggles for liberty throughout the world. This is slander, because our country is strong, strong enough to be a peacemaker. It is proud, proud enough to be patient. The whisperers and the detractors, the violent men are wrong. We will remain strong and proud, peaceful and patient, and we will see a day when on this earth all men will walk out of the long tunnels of tyranny into the bright sunshine of freedom."

Lancaster and Douglas

Frankenheimer surrounded himself with a solid supporting crew. Jerry Goldsmith provided the effective score, suspenseful and dramatic; and Edward Boyle served as set director. Boyle was nominated for an Oscar for his work on this film. He knew his stuff, having won four years earlier for The Apartment.

Rod Serling of The Twilight Zone penned the taut screenplay. He did a great job translating the book to the screen, making you wish he had done more film work. For dramatic effect, Serling and Frankenheimer made Scott more publicly blatant in his criticism of the president and reduced the involvement of one character in the novel who adds little to the story, a Secret Service agent. Both decisions enhance the story.

Douglas is great as Jiggs, giving one of his most understated performances, confused and, at the end, shocked that the man he so admired could disgrace his uniform. What makes his position so compelling is that he agrees with Scott; he tells the president that the Russians are playing them for suckers. But he understands the role of the military in a civilian government, and though a whistle-blower, he is the true patriot of the film.

Frankenheimer makes good use of closeups, showing the strain on the face of the characters. The best occurs as Jiggs is first relating his suspicions to the president. Lyman feels the officer is beating around the bush and asks him if he "has something against the English language." He tells him to speak plainly. The camera pulls in on Douglas as he finally gets his suspicions off his chest. It's a dramatic moment.

Another great pleasure is the supporting cast. O'Brien (nominated for an Oscar here), Martin Balsam, Andrew Duggan, George Macready, and Ava Gardner are each terrific, shinning in short screen time. O'Brien is the president's good friend, an alcoholic Senator from South Carolina. His accent is a little over the top but his emotions are spot on. His character is involved in the one true action sequence in the film. On a fact-finding mission, he finds himself held incognito at the secret military base, where his captors try to ply him with alcohol. When a friend of Jiggs shows up (Duggan), together they attempt an escape. Considering the amount of armed solders present, it stretches the imagination that they would succeed, but this is a film more about ideas than action, so it's easy to overlook this slight flaw.

The character Clark helps illustrate something else that is surely true about any presidency--it can be an incredibly lonely job. When the most difficult decisions are required, it comes down to one man. He may have a few friends and close advisers he can talk things over with, but in the end the responsibility is his alone. March and O'Brien's relationship brings this front and center.

Edmond O'Brien as Senator Raymond Clark.

There is another small flaw in the film and the novel. In each, the president has the chance to stop Scott through blackmail: in the novel with evidence of income tax fraud, and in the film with a pack of love letters. (The film's approach here works far better than that presented in the novel.) That in neither case is this strategy needed in the end doesn't matter. The president refuses to employ such unsavory tactics. But that decision at the time defies logic as any man faced with similar circumstances would use whatever means necessary to stop a coup. Moreover, it portrays Lyman as being too good and pious, having too much integrity, a clear liberal bias of the authors.

In the end, the film presents hope, and a firm message that democracy will stand triumphant.

Frankenheimer and Lancaster collaborated on seven films. This is one of their best.

The Roaring Twenties (1939) - Raoul Walsh

Eddie Bartlett (James Cagney), comes home to New York City after serving in France in WWI. Jobs are scarce. He tries his hand at driving a cab with his good friend, Danny (Frank McHugh). Prohibition is soon enacted and Eddie gets arrested doing a passenger a favor--delivering illegal liquor to Panama Smith (Gladys George), owner of a speakeasy. Although innocent, Bartlett takes the fall. When Smith pays Eddie's fine and he is released, she introduces him to bootlegging. Eddie has a good head for business and his operation grows, as does his criminal nature. He forms a partnership with an old army acquaintance, George (Humphrey Bogart), a ruthless racketeer, who soon takes issue with Eddie's dominate role in the gang.

The film covers the rise and fall of a man who gets involved in a life of crime during America's failed grand social experiment--Prohibition. You understand why men like Eddie were attracted to this type of life. Director Raoul Walsh gives context to the story and achieves authenticity with voice overs, period songs and documentary-like footage. This approach, and the fine cast that avoids the over-the-top performances that characterized earlier gangster films like Scarface, and to a lesser extent Little Caesar, make The Roaring Twenties the best of Warner's 1930's gangster films. Its realism is also attributable to the source novel, written by Mark Hellinger, a Chicago reporter during the heyday of Al Capone. 

The best part of the film is its star, James Cagney. Few actors held the screen like Cagney, who might best be described as a ball of pugnacious energy. His personality and magnetism compensated for his slight statue, a remarkable achievement when you think about it because he did it consistently throughout his career.  Here he delivers a finely controlled and dynamic performance. On the surface, Eddie might be just another tough hood, albeit a likable one. In Prohibition, he's sees an opportunity to live a comfortable life. He grabs it, not letting anyone stand in his way. He forces his cheap liquor on nightclub owners and highjacks competitors' supply. Yet, he's loyal to friends and enables the girl he loves (Priscilla Lane as Jean Sherman) to have a successful singing career, putting a human face on the character. Despite his tough-guy behaviour, he's a sensitive man with a heart.

Cagney and Bogart embody the roaring Twenties as bootleggers

Cagney commands nearly every scene of the film, compelling the viewer to focus on him as the action unfolds. It's a delight watching his expressions and posture. His characteristic sardonic smile and shoulder role are here, as well as his confidence. Here's a character who won't take anything from anyone--even Bogart. It's quite believable that this man could rise from nothing, using just his guile and determination to head a crime operation. Unlike the reckless Tom Powers he played eight years earlier in The Public Enemy, Eddie Bartlett is able to check his emotions--even when things go south.  When Jean rejects him for another man, Eddie is crushed, feeling betrayed. He goes to confront the man but stops himself, saying he's sorry after the first punch.  Later, when he suspects that Bogart has set him up for a hit, he doesn't retaliate.     

Eddie shows off his operation to Priscilla

Considering the subject matter, some viewers might think there's surprisingly little action. But there's enough to convey the violence of the era. Tommy guns mow down a few gangsters, there's a good fight on a ship between warring factions of bootleggers, a cop is murdered, and one gang tosses grenades at another's speakeasy. 

Gladys George gives the strongest supporting performance as Panama. She loves Eddie but he only has eyes for Jean, who loves another. Panama looks out for Eddie, even though she knows her love will be unrequited. When the stock market wipes Eddie out, he turns to drink. Panama's the only shoulder he can lean on. By the end of the film, you understand that he knows of Panama's affections. You might recognize her as Dana Andrews' mother in The Best Years of Our Lives and the widow of Bogart's partner in The Maltese Falcon.

Gladys George and Humphrey Bogart

As with all films of the era, crime does not go unpunished. Even though we are rooting for Eddie, and understand that the choices he made reflected his environment, he is a killer and thief. Still, he goes out a hero of sorts, dispatching the conniving George before being tracked down by a police officer and gunned down on the steps of a church. It is a fine death. Panama Smith rushes to cradle his head in her lap as the cop approaches. 

    

Panama: He's dead.

Cop: Well, who is this guy?

Panama: This is Eddie Bartlett.
Cop: Well, how're you hooked up with him?
Panama: I could never figure it out.
Cop: What was his business?
Panama: He used to be a big shot.

Bogart's death seems slightly out of character. He cowers like a frightened punk, his face contorted in fear and his hands shaking. It's a bit too much. Thankfully, within two years he'd have Roy Earle of High Sierra under his belt and forever after knew how to die like a man. 

Walsh would work with both Cagney (White Heat) and Bogart (They Drive by Night and High Sierra) again, drawing out some of their best performances. 

The Best of James Cagney:

• The Public Enemy (1931)
• Angles with Dirty Faces (1938)
• The Roaring Twenties (1939)
• The Fighting 69th (1940)
• Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)
• White Heat (1949)
• Mr. Roberts (1955)
• The Man of a Thousand Faces (1957)
• One, Two, Three (1961)

Key Largo (1948) - John Huston

Frank McCloud (Humphrey Bogart), a World War II vet, comes to Key Largo to visit the family of one of the men he commanded who was killed in action during the invasion of Italy. The dead soldier's wheelchair-bound father, James Temple (Lionel Barrymore), runs a hotel, assisted by his daughter-in-law Nora (Lauren Bacall). It is the height of summer heat and humidity. The hotel is closed, the only guests a shady group of characters claiming to be from Chicago on a fishing trip. McCloud suspects otherwise and soon learns they are gangsters, led by the notorious Rocco (Edward G. Robinson), a deportee who has snuck back into the country from Cuba with a suitcase full of counterfeit money that he plans to sell to some old crime partners. McCloud must contend with two threats, a fast-approaching hurricane and the increasingly nervous mobsters.

Edward G. Robinson as Johnny Rocco. 

The final of four parings for Bogart and Bacall (the others being: To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep and Dark Passage), this may be the least satisfying as far as their characters' interaction. Bacall has little to do. The focus here is on the give and take between Bogart and Robinson, which is terrifically charged and exciting. But Key Largo is really Robinson's film, and his portrayal of Johnny Rocco, a mean hood whose tough guy behavior compensates for self-doubt, is great. Reminiscent of his breakthrough role as Rico in Little Caesar 17 years earlier, one can imagine that had Rico lived, he might have turned out as Rocco, his blood lust tempered by experience, but his thirst for being a player never satisfied.

When first introduced he is sitting in a bath, trying to keep cool in front of a vacillating fan. He holds a drink in one hand, a newspaper in the other. A fat cigar hangs from his mouth. Right away you know this ugly little man is dangerous.

Rocco's temperament is all over the place as the story unfolds. Initially he is loud and outwardly confident, a typical bully, humiliating his old girlfriend and threatening the Temples. Later, when the hurricane approaches with all its terrifying force, he cowers in fear, wondering if the roof is about to be torn off. Temple fuels his concern with tales of devastation and death from prior storms. By the end of the film, Rocco shows his true colors in a confrontation with McCloud where his tough guy facade cracks to reveal a coward.

Along the way, a revealing exchange between McCloud and Rocco captures the essence of the gangster's character. He has no great motive to act as he does; he's just mean because he wants to be.

Rocco: There's only one Johnny Rocco.
Temple: How do you account for it?
McCloud: He knows what he wants. Don't you, Rocco?
Rocco: Sure.
Temple: What's that?
McCloud: Tell him, Rocco.
Rocco: Well, I want uh ...
McCloud: He wants more, don't you, Rocco?
Rocco: Yeah. That's it. More. That's right! I want more!
Temple: Will you ever get enough?
McCloud:Will you, Rocco?
Rocco: Well, I never have. No, I guess I won't. You, do you know what you want?
McCloud: Yes, I had hopes once, but I gave them up.
Rocco: Hopes for what?
McCloud: world in which there's no place for Johnny Rocco.

Rocco wants to recapture the glory days, before his deportation. He acts as if he can still rise to the top of the mob. He and his henchman constantly talk bout Prohibition, and what went wrong. It'll come back, they believe, and this time they say, the mob families won't fight. It's a pipe dream, and shows that the man can't change with the times.

The film's best scene has Rocco forcing Gaye Dawn (Claire Trevor), to sing for a drink. Once lovers, alcoholism has taken its toll on the moll since Rocco fled the country. She now disgusts him and he ignores her for the most part. When she begs for a drink he tells her she must first sing. Trevor's sad rendition of "Moanin' Low" is a big reason she won that year's Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. A cappella and pathetic, Rocco winces as he listens, wondering how he ever found her attractive. He reneges on his promise of a drink saying, "you were rotten."

By 1948 Trevor was well-established as a femme fetale. The previous year she had starred in Born to Kill as a conniving figure about as amoral as Johnny Rocco. And before that, she tried to manipulate Dick Powell in Murder My Sweet. Here, she does a 180, helping the hero by slipping him a gun, but still, you wonder if she'll find happiness afterwards. Hers is a much meatier role than Bacall's and she performs brilliantly.

Claire Trevor as Gaye Dawn

In another characteristic scene, Rocco whispers lechery into Nora's ear. You don't hear what he says but it's obviously offensive and suggestive. Nora scratches and spits in his face, the only action involving Bacall in the whole film.

Bogart plays a reluctant hero. McCloud only rises to the occasion when forced to; he'd just as soon see Rocco complete his mission and leave. Still, he can only take so much and knows scum when he sees it. After witnessing Rocco's crude behaviour, he risks needling the gangster: "You don't like it, do you Rocco, the storm? Show it your gun, why don't you? If it doesn't stop, shoot it." When Rocco's boat captain disappears under cover of the storm, Rocco calls on the veteran to steer them back to Cuba.

Bogart as McCloud starts to get under Rocco's skin.

If the film has a failing, it's the end. The final resolution seems less satisfying than one might hope. You assume throughout that Rocco will get his comeuppance, but there is little danger in the last ten minutes. It's too easy for Bogart.

Director John Huston had worked with Bogart three times before, most recently in a film that same year which over-shadowed this one, The Treasure of Sierra Madre. Nominated for Best Film and Best Director, Treasure is more acclaimed, and rightfully so. Still, Key Largo is a fine followup.

For the era, Huston does a good enough job with special effects to mimic a hurricane. Windows shatter, trees are uprooted, and stock footage of real storms show the surge of seawater up the shore.

It's fitting that like fellow actor and gangster alum James Cagney, Robinson would score big later in his career with a return to the genre that started it all, recapturing the menace he first exhibited in Little Caesar in 1931. Depression audiences lapped up the diversionary gangster films, for that same year saw Cagney's first attention-getting role in The Public Enemy. If both men had since mainly moved onto other types of roles, they knew a good role when they saw one; Robinson beating his friend to the punch as Cagney's return to crime came one year later in a tour de force performance in White Heat.

Inexplicably, Robinson never received an Oscar nomination. His performance here seems particularly slighted. A shame, since it turned out to be his last real chance for such recognition.

The Best of Edward G. Robinson:

• Little Caesar (1931)
• The Amazing Dr. Clitterhouse (1938)
• The Sea Wolf (1941)
• Double Indemnity (1944)
• The Woman in the Window (1944)
• Scarlet Street (1945)
• The Stranger (1946)
• Key Largo (1948)
• The Cincinnati Kid (1965)
• Soylent Green (1973)

The French Connection (1971) -- William Friedkin

Hard drugs have become scarce on the street when two tough New York City narcotics cops get wind of a large drug shipment coming in from France. Over the course of several days Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) and Buddy "Cloudy" Russo (Roy Scheider) match wits with the mastermind, suave Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey), a big international heroin dealer. After long, tedious hours of surveillance, they move to effect what they hope will be a major drug bust.

Based on real events a decade before but set in 1971, The French Connection is one of those rare films that seems to perfectly capture the period and setting of its story. New York has never seemed as gritty and dangerous, and the life of a big city cop never so tedious and frustrating. It's a gripping tale of what it's like for police in the uphill battle against the scourge of drugs. There is a somewhat documentary feel to the action, and with a script laced with crude street language and populated with junkies, small-time and big-time crooks, and red-eyed cops, director William Friedkin and his actors achieve remarkable authenticity. (Hackman and Scheider shadowed real cops Eddie Egan and Sonny Grosso for a month to get a feel for the job). Hackman gives one of his best performances as the obsessed, manic protagonist.

Gene Hackman as Popeye Doyle.

The pacing of the film is superb. Friedkin begins by unveiling the smuggling plan with action in Marseilles, then shifts to New York to introduce Popeye, dressed as Santa Claus, and his partner Cloudy in a highly effective set piece. The two cops are on a routine drug case, looking for a particular dealer. When their suspect takes flight, they follow on foot, huffing and puffing until they corner him in a rubble-strewn yard. Popeye plays bad cop, Cloudy, good cop as they work the fellow over.

Popeye Doyle: "All right! You put a shiv in my partner. You know what that means? Goddammit! All winter long I got to listen to him gripe about his bowling scores. Now I'm gonna bust your ass for those three bags and I'm gonna nail you for picking your feet in Poughkeepsie."

 And later:

Doyle:   "You dumb guinea."

Cloudy: "How the hell was I supposed to know he had a knife."

Doyle:    "Never trust a nigger."

Cloudy: "He could have been white."

Doyle: "Never trust anyone!"

You understand immediately that Popeye Doyle is not someone to mess with. Rough and difficult for his superiors to control, he is a seriously angry man, used to dealing with street scum. He has a drinking problem too, but after seeing the world these policemen live in, you can hardly blame him. That they operate in an environment that is more often than not unrewarding is bad enough. Worse, they must endure hours of mind-nubbing boredom interspersed with intense moments of action. It takes a toll. It's as if a middle-aged, pot-bellied marathon runner were required at gunpoint to sprint a hundred yards every half mile.     

In an emotional sense, Popeye is isolated. Like many cops in his situation, except for his partner, he is alone, figuratively and literally. He is a lonely man who must immerse himself in his work to have a purpose, and who compensates for his isolation by acting tough and aggressive. Friedkin crafted a great scene where Popeye and Cloudy shake down a group of dealers and users in a dingy bar. They are outnumbered, maybe twenty to two. Popeye yells and curses, shoves them against the wall, slaps a few, and acts fearless. Pill boxes litter the floor and are taped to the underside of the bar, quickly discarded by the patrons upon the cops' appearance. They are used to the routine. Popeye concocts a disgusting looking cocktail out the mess, dumping it on the bar as he leaves. "I'll be back," he warns. It's a wonderfully claustrophobic setting in one of the biggest cities in the world.

There is plenty of action. The now famous chase comes about halfway through the film. Charnier sends a sniper to take out Doyle, who's getting too close for comfort and is being a nuisance. The hit fails and Popeye takes off after the shooter, setting off the memorable car chase sequence, a wonderful bit of stunt driving. Hackman (mostly stunt coordinator Bill Hickman) careens down the crowded street like a mad man, beneath the elevated tracks of a West End subway line as the hit man races above in a high-jacked train. He weaves through pedestrians and vehicle traffic, nearly hitting a woman pushing a baby carriage and is side-swiped into an abutment doing the pursuit, a real accident that Friedkin kept in the film. Deservedly considered one of the best of its type ever filmed, it is a thrilling ride for the viewer and surely was an adrenalin-sapping one for the film crew.

Doyle and the sniper have a deadly encounter.

Friedkin used hidden cameras in a scene that takes place earlier at the Times Square/Grand Central subway station. Doyle and Charnier play cat and mouse, jumping in and out of cars, trying to act nonchalant, until the smuggler makes his get-away. It is superbly edited, and considering that none of the other riders knew a movie was being made, as close to realism as you can get.

Catching crooks is tedious business, of course. No film shows this better, and the frustration policemen deal with: red tape; long, boring nights of surveillance; and worse of all, justice denied. The story takes place in winter and in one such scene, Doyle watches Charnier eat a fancy dinner in a restaurant while he nibbles on a donut and drinks old coffee from a Styrofoam cup on the street outside.

Two cops on a stakeout.

When Doyle finally learns how the drugs are being smuggled into the country, he arranges a bust, knowing the exchange is about to made at an abandoned warehouse. The shootout finale goes quick, but Charnier ducks into a decrepit building with Doyle hot on his heals. Some viewers don't like the ending, but I found it appropriate.

Not surprisingly the film was one of the most decorated and critically acclaimed of the decade, garnering eight Oscar nominations and winning five awards, including Hackman as Best Actor, Friedkin as Best Director, Best Picture, and Best Editing.  Don Ellis wrote the jazzy score, which adds wonderfully to the mood, ominous and edgy.

Of course, Friedkin has embellished the story quite a bit. In real life the famous chase scene never happened--Popeye certainly never shot a man in the back--and the depicted bust was made at the homes of the American drug partners, not in the dramatic fashion depicted. 

Other Films by William Friedkin

• The Exorcist - 1973
• Sorcerer - 1977
• To Live and Die in L.A. - 1985

Other Films by Gene Hackman

• Bonnie and Clyde - 1967
• The Poseidon Adventure - 1972
• The Conversation - 1974
• Hoosiers - 1986
• Mississippi Burning - 1988
• Unforgiven - 1992