Archive for Arthur Shields

Renault Capture

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , on September 21, 2015 by dcairns

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DR. RENAULT’S SECRET is a pretty fine 1942 B-movie horror, really — I watched it some time ago as part of my mad, ever-receding quest to see every film illustrated in Dennis Gifford’s Pictorial History of Horror Movies. Finally I got around to showing it to Fiona.

The film deals with a mad scientist (George Zucco) in a French village who has fashioned a man — well, J. Carroll Naish — from an ape, in the best Dr. Moreau style. There’s some boring love interest and inappropriate comedy relief from comedy drunk Jack Norton. The real relief — and surprise — comes when Norton gets offed in the night. Then we get Arthur Shields as a detective, who has a great face for horror movies, and Mike Mazurki, Hollywood’s greatest brute-for-hire.

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Detective Shields

The 4F leading man’s name is Shepperd Strudwick, which cracks me up. He’s credited as John Sheppard, though, so he sounds like a lead, looks like a lead, but can’t attract interest like a lead. And the script sabotages him by having him stand by disapprovingly as poor monkeyman Naish is bullied by the villagers. Why doesn’t he intervene? His character has the same problem as many “heroes” in horror movies, from the worthless bystanders in FRANKENSTEIN (John Boles) to the male leads in the early Cronenberg films — he’s basically irrelevant to the action, and if he were able to intervene effectively, there would be no movie. He’s there so that we can have someone “relatable,” as if audiences were known to prefer impotent bores to sneering mad scientists and shambling ape men.

Naish does quite well — “Noel” the “throwback,” now thrown forward up the evolutionary ladder to the putty-faced level of John Mills in RYAN’S DAUGHTER, is a very sympathetic character, despite his occasional murderings. And though the slightly out-of-shape thesp struggles to convey the athletic prowess of a simian superman, the rather weird, uncanny quality Naish always had — you couldn’t cast him as human beings, really — works well here.

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Zucco’s photo album of his experiments is unfortunately a bit more comical than terrifying.

Every five minutes or so there’s a really striking closeup. Director Harry Lachman, on his last movie, did intermittently beautiful things throughout his career, the most famous being the 1935 DANTE’S INFERNO with its astonishing hellscape (at 51.53).

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Playboy Criminologist

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 25, 2014 by dcairns

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As soon as I saw a news headline in THE GAY FALCON describing George Sanders’ character as a “playboy criminologist” I knew that was the job for me. Though I’m not sure — is 46 too old to start in that line of work?

And yes, the film is called THE GAY FALCON and George does say “This seems to be my night for using back doors.” Get your sniggering over with.

Indecisiveness: George just finished playing THE SAINT in a popular RKO series and handed the job over to Hugh Sinclair, and then they create a near-identical series for him about The Falcon, with Wendy Barrie, who was his romantic interest in three Saint movies, playing different characters. Here she seems set to be just a guest star, but the Falcon’s fiancee, Nina Vale, mysteriously dropped out of movies after one appearance so Barrie returned to replace her with not a word of explanation.

This movie sets up Arthur Shields as a dumb Irish cop stereotype, foil to the Falcon, but he’s replaced for two follow-ups by James Gleason (knot together three strands of sinew then stretch to breaking point), who played similar stooges to crime-solvers Barbara Stanwyck (THE MAD MISS MANTON), Edna May Oliver (PENGUIN POOL MURDER and sequels) and William Powell (THE EX-MRS. BRADFORD and TAKE ONE FALSE STEP)  Peggy Ann Garner and pals (HOME, SWEET HOMICIDE) and probably others. If he wasn’t available, Sam Levene would do it and no one would know.

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Dibble by lamplight.

Allen Jenkins becomes the main element of consistency across the Sanders entries in the series, appearing as hapless sidekick “Goldie” Locke each time, but the writers only decide to make him a spectacular malaprop in the later films (“Me and my neck prefer to remain in magneto.”)

The writers are Lynn Root and Frank Fenton, fresh from the Saint films, though for THE FALCON TAKES OVER they adapt Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely and change Marlowe into the Falcon.

And apparently Dr. Terwilliker himself, Hans Conried, made such a hit as a police sketch artist in the first film (he’s hilariously bored and aloof) that they brought him back as a hotel desk clerk in the second film and a shady playboy in the third.

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Turhan Bey, an oiled baby with a moustache, plays a jewel thief in the first film and a psychic in the third.

George’s manservant changes from an old Chinese guy to an old English guy, vanishes for an entire film, and then comes back as Keye Luke. And, as in a dream, no one else seems to notice.

In the fourth film, THE FALCON ‘S BROTHER, George meets his screen brother, Tom, played by his real brother, Tom, who the takes over the series for nine more films while George seeks his pleasures elsewhere. Conway is like dilute Sanders: listening to them together is uncanny, they’re so similar, but you notice the edge and the droll lassitude in George, the source of his Georgeness. Tom is theoretically handsome, but he’s like a walking argument against the importance of handsomeness — George, with his big fat head, like an Arcimboldo sausage-face, is a consistent pleasure and wonder to look at, whereas the eye slips off Tom, can find no purchase on his smooth frontage. Tom was nicer, they say, and his blandness fitted him perfectly for Val Lewton films, which thrived on colourless leads, low-key as the lighting.

This FALCON episode is like the INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS of the series — not only is George rendered comatose for most of the action while his brother goes investigating (nobody worries, it’s just like “He’ll be fine as soon as he COMES OUT OF HIS COMA.”), but Jenkins and Gleason have been replaced by cheaper, crapper actors playng characters with different names but the exact same attributes and histories and roles.

A guy comes home and finds that everything in his apartment has been stolen and replaced with identical replicas…

Even the writers have been replaced: Root & Fenton wrote delightful material: repetitive, of course, but that’s part of the charm. Their replacements create blotchy carbon copy dialogue that sounds like a distorted echo of the previous films, piped through the lips of wan replicants.

…He asks his flatmate, “What happened here?” …

And still, this is nothing compared to Warner Bros Perry Mason series, where not only the co-stars but the genre (straight mystery or broad, drunken comedy) changed from show to show, with Allen Jenkins playing different characters and Mason’s girl Friday, Della Street being played by a beauty parade of contract starlets — just to confuse things, Ann Dvorak appeared twice, so the series was not even consistent in its inconsistency.

…His flatmate says, “Who are you?”

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Anyhow, the films are slick, fun and forgettable, just like GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY only half as long and about ten thousand times cheaper and quieter. Also, nobody wears frocks made from caterpillar tracks, which is either a relief or a disappointment depending on your taste.