Frankenstein Meets The Wolf Man (1943)

 ☆ ☆ ☆

Frankenstein Meets The Wolf Man (1943) – R. W. Neill

Although this is the fourth sequel to Universal’s Frankenstein (1931), it is really just the first sequel to The Wolf Man (1941).  So, it makes sense that Lon Chaney, Jr., has returned as Larry Talbot, except of course that he was killed at the end of the first film by a crack on the head with a silver cane wielded by his father Claude Rains.  No worries, as the writer (Curt Siodmak) has invented some additional werewolf lore that reveals that Talbot can’t actually die (despite spending years asleep in his coffin, until awakened by graverobbers).  Now that Talbot is alive again, and killing people every full moon, he wants nothing more than to really die.  As such, with the assistance of Maleva, the gypsy woman from the first film (again played by Maria Ouspenskaya), they seek out Dr. Frankenstein (who they believe knows the secrets of life and death) in his castle in Vasaria.  Alas, the scientist is already dead but Talbot stumbles upon the Monster (now played by Bela Lugosi) frozen in ice.  When freed, he accompanies Talbot to the castle where, with the help of Talbot’s doctor (Patric Knowles) and Frankenstein’s daughter (Ilona Massey) – stay with me -- they find Frankenstein’s secret diaries.  Following instructions within, they aim to drain the life energies from Talbot and the Monster (by reversing the polarity when attached to those wires, of course).  But things turn pear shaped and soon and as expected the Monster and the Wolf Man are fighting hand-to-hand until the angry villagers blow up the dam and the mighty river washes the castle away with the monsters within – until they are resurrected in House of Frankenstein (1944) where things get even more campy.  The current film plays out with a mostly straight face, highlighted by the spooky mise-en-scene, cinematography, and music of the classic monsters series we loved so well.  

The Fallen Sparrow (1943)

☆ ☆ ☆ 

The Fallen Sparrow (1943) – R. Wallace

Things begin well for this wartime noir, with John Garfield starring as John McKittrick, a veteran of the Spanish Civil War who has just returned to New York (with PTSD) to try to get to the bottom of the mysterious death of one of his buddies. He’s not a cop himself but his father was a famous one and so was his buddy who he knows did not commit suicide. To solve the murder, he begins mixing in the posh social circle that surrounded his friend at the time of his death, including with an elderly prince and his adult granddaughter (played by Maureen O’Hara). His attention soon focuses on two refugees from Norway, played by Walter Slezak (in a wheelchair) and Hugh Beaumont, but one, two, or three femme fatales may also be guilty (O’Hara, Patricia Morison, or Martha O’Driscoll). However, just as we begin to understand how McKittrick himself figures in the plot (why he was tortured in a Spanish prison and how this relates to his friend’s death), we also start to question whether his judgment is affected by the PTSD that resulted. He keeps hearing a limping man, perhaps the same limping man he heard coming down the hall from his dark cell or perhaps just a recurring traumatic memory. Unfortunately, this tantalizing ambiguity slowly dissolves into a muddled plot where it is hard to keep the various side characters and their motivations straight (until the villain is revealed and it all seems so obvious). Yet, through it all, Garfield holds his blustery own as McKittrick, a noir protagonist navigating through a confusing world, questioning his own sanity but gifted with a moral compass that guides him through even to the final scene where he must do the right thing.

  

The More the Merrier (1943)

 ☆ ☆ ☆

The More the Merrier (1943) – G. Stevens

Somehow, I found myself underwhelmed by The More the Merrier and I’m rather hard-pressed to know why.  Perhaps it is because I’ve watched a few screwball comedies from the era recently and this film is far less madcap, even if it does conjure up a few chuckles.  Perhaps it is because Charles Coburn is so great as the slick swindler in Preston Sturges’ The Lady Eve (1941) that seeing him in a somewhat goofier role is rather off-putting.  Beyond that, this film feels dated in a way that other comedies of the period do not – it might be the references to wartime problems with housing and the shortage of men but it also might be the more sexist tone that director George Stevens adopts.  The plot sees Joel McCrea and Coburn moving into Jean Arthur’s apartment (due to housing supply issues) and the subsequent romance that blossoms (or is orchestrated by Coburn).  She’s engaged to someone else (a government bureaucrat) but really shouldn’t be.  The film gets the three leads into a variety of silly situations but still it doesn’t feel as chaotic as it should (for the genre). There seems to be a need to play to the home team, soldiers heading overseas and those remaining behind who are missing them – and this gentle aim undercuts any sharper bite that the comedy might deserve.  Again, I suspect my under-reaction is all about the comparison to other better films in the genre.  But don’t get me wrong – all three actors are funny and worth watching, they’re just better in other films.

  

La Main du Diable (1943)

 

☆ ☆ ☆ ½

La Main du Diable (1943) – M. Tourneur

Better translated as The Hand of the Devil, this French horror film reminded me of The Monkey’s Paw, although in this case the talisman offering good luck is an actual human hand and more than a few wishes are available – the cost, however, is the loss of one’s soul to the Devil himself.  Pierre Fresnay (from La Grande Illusion) plays the foolish painter who buys the talisman for one penny in order to achieve fame and love.  Upon learning more, he contacts the Devil (a cunning old man in a bowler) and learns that he can sell the hand back for a penny but that each day he delays, the price will double.  Fearing that he will lose his wife, he dawdles too long and soon owes millions of francs.  How he gets out of this predicament is something of a flight of fancy, involving the invocation of all the previous owners of the creepy left hand, but the ending still sits right.  Perhaps director Maurice Tourneur’s film is not exactly on par with the output of his son, Jacques, for producer Val Lewton at the same time but this is still worth a gander if you are in the mood for a different version of this age-old story.

 

Sherlock Holmes Faces Death (1943)

☆ ☆ ☆

Sherlock Holmes Faces Death (1943)—R. W. Neill

Another solid outing for Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson.  This time, there is a murder at Musgrave Manor in Northumberland where the Musgrave family has turned their mansion into a home for convalescing servicemen (the film is set in modern day WWII England).  The mansion is spooky and filled with secret passages (in which bumbling Inspector Lestrade gets lost) and has an underground burial crypt which holds the secret to the mystery.  But it takes some time before this secret is found – the Musgrave family members are murdered one-by-one and a ritual poem read at their funerals provides clues (with allusions to the game of chess) that enable Holmes to discover just what is going on.  There are a few too many minor characters and the major red herring is rather too obviously innocent but it’s all good fun.  I have fond memories of watching these films on Boston’s Channel 38 on Saturday nights!

  

The Ghost Ship (1943)

☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Ghost Ship (1943) – M. Robson

One of the five collaborations between director Mark Robson and producer Val Lewton (best known for his low-budget RKO horror films which included Cat People and I Walked with a Zombie, both directed by Jacques Tourneur).  Although Robson’s best Lewton film is certainly The Seventh Victim (also 1943) about a nihilistic Satanic cult, The Ghost Ship manages to summon up a similar sense of dread in places.  Russell Wade plays Tom Merriam who has just signed on to be the Third Officer on the ship Altair, captained by Richard Dix’s Will Stone.  Stone is a sombre character, weighted down by his “authority” which he wields with a heavy hand, although alternating with moments of fatherly warmth.  When Merriam begins to think the captain is deranged and suspects foul play, he calls the shipping company to turn him in.  After that, the forces of doom seem aligned against him and shadows lurk in every corner of the ship.  His former friends turn against him.  Will there be any escape from the sullen and brooding captain?  As in other Lewton pictures, a real sense of menace and dread is created here using very subtle means: darkness, a camera shot fixed on a slowly opening door, noises from offscreen.  A creepy mute sailor adds a further spooky touch. 

The Leopard Man (1943)

☆ ☆ ☆ ½

The Leopard Man (1943) – J. Tourneur

Val Lewton’s productions use minimal means to create scares out of shadows and The Leopard Man is no exception.  A young girl walks alone to buy corn meal in the New Mexico night.  The soundtrack is silent except for her footsteps and the wind rustling the trees.  Suddenly tumbleweed rushes by out of nowhere.  We are afraid for her because a dangerous leopard is on the loose after escaping from a nightclub publicity stunt gone wrong.  The young girl does die and this event initiates a series of murders.  But is the cat really the culprit? Although there are a number of suspects, under Jacques Tourneur’s direction, this never really turns into a B-picture mystery where a detective sorts through the clues to build up to an announced solution but instead the film remains spookier and more existential.  There is a heavy coldness here where the chilly fingers of death could be just around the next corner, stalking their prey and taking the soul away offscreen, leaving only remains.

This Land is Mine (1943)

☆ ☆ ☆ ½

This Land is Mine (1943) – J. Renoir

I still find it astonishing to watch the impassioned films of the early 1940s that offer sermons admonishing people to fight the Nazis and to defend freedom.  Having escaped from France himself, Jean Renoir (like so many other European émigré directors) was personally invested in this message.  This Land is Mine vividly and theatrically tells the story of an unknown country under German occupation and the choices people make to resist or not to resist.  Charles Laughton, a school-teacher, is too meek to know what to do, but he is influenced by his colleague, Maureen O’Hara, her brother Kent Smith, and the principal of the school (Philip Merivale) to know what is right. They are opposed by Walter Slezak, the charismatic German major, and George Sanders, the self-loathing collaborator.  As events play out and members of the resistance are caught and shot, Laughton becomes galvanized.  And then it happens, the movie stops dead and allows Laughton to speak at length against occupations both general and specific (in words written by screenwriter Dudley Nichols, who wrote many Hollywood hits).  This is pretty rousing stuff and you don’t hear it every day.  Perhaps we should.   Of course, this break from the film (and from Laughton’s character) does disrupt the original story – but for this decision, I’m giving it an even higher rating than if it stayed small and kept its social influence strategy implicit.