Robert Siodmak | 80 mins | TV | PG
A serial murderer is on the loose in 1900s New England, or 1910s Massachusetts (pick which website you want to believe). His victims are all disabled women, so at the wealthy Warren residence, both family and staff worry for mute maid Helen — particularly as it seems the murderer may be among them…
From this relatively simple premise, screenwriter Mel Dinelli and director Robert Siodmak spin a yarn that, over the course of just one dark and stormy night, blends together gothic horror, film noir, serial killer thriller and Christie-esque whodunnit. The resulting blend makes for a film that is, for several reasons, an exceptionally entertaining work. Perhaps I’m predisposed to like it, though, as those four constituent genres are all among my favourites.
Dinelli’s screenplay sets up the cast — and, therefore, the list of suspects — almost casually. With the threat not necessarily coming from within, we (or, at least, I) don’t immediately realise that we’re being shown a list of people to suspect. But as the bed-ridden and delirious Mrs. Warren issues dire warnings, and the house closes itself off from the outside world in the face of the storm, it becomes apparent that the culprit is already among them.
Some viewers allege that it’s at this point the story falls apart; that there’s only one possible suspect. I disagree. Though I can’t say the film entirely had me fooled, there are several suspicious characters, particularly if you’re prepared to consider extraordinary leaps of probability — and in genres like gothic horror, film noir and whodunnit, you should be. Indeed, while some see the killer as obvious others may consider them unlikely; but, for the attentive, the groundwork for the motivation is laid throughout.
And even if the killer is obvious, the film has much more going for it. Siodmak’s direction is exemplary, supported by equally alluring camerawork from cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca. In perhaps his most daring move, Siodmak takes us literally into the killer’s eyes to view his subjects, making the viewer to some degree complicit in this voyeurism. Elsewhere, genuine tension is wrung out of numerous sequences, something that can rarely be said these days, when victims and victors are all too obvious in most films. One excellent sequence sees repeated potential threats being set up, dissipated, only to be followed by another. It ultimately ends with humour rather than shock, but we’re still left with the thought — seemingly forgotten by the characters — of why was that window open in the first place? The climax, on the titular staircase, is all sharp angles and deep shadows, easily the equal of anything else in the film.
A mention for the sound design, too. Even during simple dialogue scenes, where one might expect silence but for the words in a film of this era, rain lashes against the window in the background, the heavy weather a ceaseless reminder of the threat lurking close at hand. It is, to use a cliché, a character in itself. Thanks to the enclosed setting, we spend a fair amount of time with these characters, and there are good performances too, but that’s for another reviewer to discuss — try Riding the High Country’s excellent appraisal, for instance.
What struck me most about The Spiral Staircase was its atmosphere. It’s the perfect filmic evocation of a dark and stormy night, and with its setting contained to one securely locked (or is it?) house, this is — depending on your disposition — either the last film you’d want to watch late on a rain-lashed night, or the perfect one. Having watched it on one myself, I most assuredly side with the latter.
The Spiral Staircase is on BBC Two tonight (or, more precisely, tomorrow) at 1am. Let’s hope there’s a storm coming…
Force of Evil comes well recommended, with places on several 1,000 Best Movies lists and inclusion both on 
Duncan’s analysis (Force of Evil is one of seven noirs treated to an extended segment in his book) suggests a more complex reading of the film than I took from it, explaining much as symbolic or metaphorical. Considering I didn’t engage with the film, I’m tempted to see Duncan’s reading as a way of rationalising things that either aren’t there or were flawed, but the film’s wider critical acceptance suggests he may well be right.
Living Free is, in many ways, a tale of obsession. I’m certain that wasn’t Joy Adamson’s intention in writing the book, and I don’t think it’s the filmmakers’ intention either, but the facts can still play that way. The Adamsons devote months of their time, give up a promising career, spend all their savings, drive themselves into debt, and are nearly killed several times, all in a frequently-extreme effort to save three delinquent lion cubs who would be put down were it not for their sentimental attachment.
The rest of the story moves into What Happened Next territory: Elsa dies, the Adamsons’ obsession with finding and saving her cubs begins. The film skips the book Living Free, adapting threequel Forever Free instead, presumably for dramatic reasons — I imagine Elsa and cubs just living isn’t as much of a Story as her death and subsequent events.
Living Free isn’t as endearing as Born Free. By the very nature of trying to keep the cubs wild, they’re less relatable than Elsa and consequently we become less attached to them. As you may’ve guessed, I found it more interesting to look on the film as a story of obsession, one that threatens to ruin the Adamsons’ lives, though ultimately it has an upbeat ending.
Born Free tells the true story of Joy and George Adamson, a Senior Game Warden in 1950s Kenya, who adopted three lion cubs after mistakenly killing their mother. Though they give two away to a zoo, Joy can’t bear to part with one, Elsa, and so they raise her — until circumstances force them to part with her. Despite Elsa’s age, Joy insists they try to release her into the wild rather than send her to a zoo.
Then there are the other animals, including elephants (always wonderful) and the Adamsons’ adorable pet… rodent… (look, I’m no expert.) Best of all is a head-butting warthog, who has instantly become my favourite film animal. The entire film was worth that sequence.
This is one of those films I always feel horrendously under-qualified to bother offering any kind of thought on. It’s the kind of film you suspect benefits most not just from repeated viewings and a desire to dig deep into its themes, but also a wider understanding of the director’s work and thematic concerns. This is only compounded in the case of Ozu by the fact I watched 
(which bolsters my belief that his most renowned work is indeed worth a second shot). One issue, I suspect, is that I knew nothing of Ozu before my first experience; having read up on him (if only a little), his idiosyncratic squared-off shots and straight-on close-ups feel less blatant and frequent here, and being aware of their deliberateness perhaps makes them less intrusive. That said, I remain unconvinced by it as a guiding notion — I’m sure there’s a reason beyond the proliferation of American cinema that the visual style we’re used to seeing in most film and TV is, well, the visual style we’re used to seeing.
when the prospect of marriage and leaving her father seriously raises its head. (And I’m afraid that’s the closest to analysis you’ll find here.)
Hercules is the first post-me Disney; the point where, for whatever reason, I stopped watching their output. But, of course, Disneys — good Disneys, at any rate — are suited to every age group.
animal-sidekicks-with-no-dialogue-who-can-still-convey-their-thoughts-and-feelings-perfectly (I feel this tradition needs a snappier name.) Love interest Meg, meanwhile, starts out intensely irritating but is gradually redeemed. Good work, I say to the film’s 
(though even mentioning it in the same sentence as that number makes it sound better than it is). Only love interest Meg gets a passable song, not that I could remember it within hours of watching the film. Maybe it’s not all that bad really, but when early-’90s Disneys could produce several unforgettable tunes per film, it feels like a weak album from a band you usually enjoy.
Disney’s 40th (canonical) animated film had a very troubled production, which, from what I can tell, turned it from a derivative riff on The Prince and the Pauper into this load of tosh.
In reality it doesn’t suffer from that too much, and again looked nice and crisp in HD. I usually ignore image quality when it comes to reviews — not that I don’t care, but in these reviews I’m aiming to look at the content of the film rather than the particular copy I watched — but HD has such noticeable benefits for animation (when done well).
Part II, eh? A continuation of the same story from Part I, theoretically; like 
The screenplay is by James Cameron (yes, that one) and Stallone. Cameron says he wrote the action and Stallone added the politics. I don’t know who wrote the dialogue, but on the whole it’s typically straightforward and/or laughably weak. You can see why these days people get hired to do a “dialogue polish”.
if the film is vilifying those who didn’t care about soldiers who fought in Vietnam (which it is), the characters who abandon Rambo and the other PoWs are an embodiment for this disdain.
Notorious for having numerous cuts forced upon it by censors, over 40 years after its initial release Witchfinder General — now uncut — seems almost tame. But gore and sadistic violence certainly aren’t the main attractions — there’s a lot more to the film than that.
shot against Reeves’ wishes, featuring needlessly topless wenches. This is the cut shown by the BBC.)
Witchfinder General is more action-adventure than horror.
Best of all is the witchfinder himself, excellently portrayed by horror stalwart Vincent Price. Indeed, all the credit may lay with him, because it’s his line deliveries and uncertain looks that make the character conflicted early on, a man who may believe he is genuinely doing good for Christian values, but is seduced down darker paths by money, power, lust, and the prospect of revenge. When he allows himself to be lured to Sara’s bedroom as payment for leniency on her uncle, we’re uncertain if he’ll take what’s intended or use her loose ways as proof of witchery. That it’s the former quickly indicates how seriously he takes his espoused Christianity.
to near-silhouette levels of blackness. It’s even less convincing than that fake blood. I enjoyed the score too. A completely new one was written for the US release, but I presume this was the original because it was slightly calmer and more haunting than one might expect from an action-adventure-horror movie (which I presume was the reasoning for the replacement).
Someone (who exactly is long lost to the depths of my memory) once observed that, though a lot of people claim to not like musicals, they’re quite happy to acknowledge their love for 
Judy Garland is fine in the lead role — still playing a teen, despite being 21, but suitably distant from Dorothy. Margaret O’Brien receives prominent second billing in the role of ‘Tootie’, despite being just seven years old. She was, I learn, something of a star at the time, in spite of her young age, which perhaps explains the (arguably) undue prominence in both the credits and the film itself. That said, she’s a rather good actress, and picked up an Oscar for her performance here (and other roles she played in 1944).
100Films.co.uk 