The Last Laugh (1924)

A hotel doorman faces despair, in this fluid piece of film-making brilliance from Murnau

Director: FW Murnau

Cast: Emil Jannings (The doorman), Maly Delschaft (His niece), Hans Unterkircher (The manager), Georg John (The night watchman), Max Hillier (The bridegroom), Olaf Storm (Young guest), Herman Vallentin (Guest with pot belly)

Released in Germany as the Der Letzte Mann, it became The Last Laugh in English-speaking cinema to avoid confusion with a long-forgotten silent comedy The Last Man. Having its title stolen seems very appropriate for Murnau’s masterpiece, a masterfully simple morality tale by Carl Mayer. The Atlantic Hotel’s doorman (Emil Jannings) is the highly respected master of his neighbourhood. All that changes when, due to his advancing age, he is stripped of his position and demoted to cleaning the basement toilets. Humiliation piles on humiliation as word of his new position spreads.

It’s a simple story, in many ways little more than anecdote or an Aesop’s fable of pride before a fall. But you can see it as having universal force, and a particular relevance to its time and place. The doorman, with his ramrod back, carefully manicured moustaches and, above all, his grand uniform emblazoned with epaulettes and tassels, looks like some sort of Field Marshal. He certainly behaves like one, walking through his neighbourhood like it’s a parade ground, dishing out salutes and accepting deference from all and sundry. He’s the puffed-up symbol of pre-War Germany, overwhelmingly certain of his position and obsessed with the ephemera of his office.

All that gets stripped from him in seconds, as he is bluntly called into an office, passed a note by a distracted manager informing him his glory days of greeting guests are over. His uniform is practically torn from him – a button falling from his coat and landing on the floor, a beautiful little moment of visual degradation – and he becomes a stooped, scruffy, shambling old man dressed in a non-descript white jacket. From Kaiser, he’s now the downtrodden and humiliated Versailles Germany, stripped of empire and reduced to passing a towel to guests for coins.

It’s a beautiful little metaphor for a whole country, captured in the collapse of status of a single man, told with a suggestive lightness that makes it universal. It becomes a domestic tragedy could be about anyone, anywhere – and the fact it is a perfect fit for post-war Germany is a happy marriage. Another happy marriage is the casting of Jannings. No actor in history embraced humiliation and masochism as much as Jannings. He eases into his old age make-up like a seasoned ham, his body shrinking and collapsing into a timid stoop. Jannings is left in near catatonic shock at his demotion, then desperately clings to a fantasy of preserving his status outside the workplace, all while he becomes increasingly dishevelled.

The Last Laugh presents this within a gloriously inventive, technically superb version by FW Murnau, working closely with cinematographer Karl Freund. Murnau’s desire to let the visuals do the storytelling sees The Last Laugh almost completely shed any on-screen captions (bar a few close ups on a letter, a newspaper and a final ‘note from the author’). Instead, the story unfolds perfectly and gloriously in images alone, the twists and turns expertly unfolding with perfect clarity.

On top of which, The Last Laugh is awash with cinematic verve. From its opening shot, a pacey tracking shot that reaches the hotel lobby via the lift and then pans through the lobby to the doorman, Murnau makes the camera mobile and engaging. The Last Laugh makes use of several crash zooms to accentuate points, be it shock (a zoom in to the face of the doorman’s housekeeper when she discovers the truth), foreboding (a zoom into the exterior of the hotel and its new doorman), to ironic glory (a diving crane shot that pulls into a trumpeter on the street whose music invades the doorman’s drunken fantasies), it’s a film of dynamic movement.

Murnau also uses doors, fittingly, as a neat visual metaphor. Repeated shots framed through the hotel’s revolving doors hint at the circular nature of fortune that its lead character discovers only too harshly. The doorman’s dismissal is shot from outside a pair of glass doors, the divide separating the shell-shocked doorman from his distracted manager. The door down to the basement toilet, swings shut with the finality of some sort of Dante gateway, leading to the gloom below. Doors appear throughout to separate or trap characters, especially the doorman. And in his fantasy, the doorman pictures himself guarding a revolving door so tall it would dwarf the hotel.

The doorman’s fantasies are another moment of influential cinematic invention. Hearing music in the street, after holding court during his niece’s wedding (dressed in a stolen uniform), the hungover doorman day dreams of being restored to his position. As his head bobs and sways, stationary in the frame, the room around him spins and rotates. Bleary, superimposed fantasy shots intrude as the doorman sees himself restored to glory in the foyer, lifting and juggling singlehanded the massive luggage crate he had been unable to pick up earlier.

The same swirling super-imposed images haunt the doorman when the truth of his demotion becomes known. He imagines a whirling collection of laughing faces, delighting in his humiliating fall. His final fate sees him escorted, late at night, to the bathroom by a kindly night watchman (Georg John), ending sitting against the wall framed in a pool of light, like a condemned man facing a never-ending sentence.

Or is he? Really the film should stop at the 80-minute mark, because there is no coming back from this – only a long trudge towards death. But the money men felt, “Mein got! that’s a bit depressing!”, so we get our first proper caption telling us that, unlike in real life, the author will provide a happy ending. So, the doorman inherits a fortune from an eccentric millionaire, becomes a guest at the hotel and is restored to all his former glory and then some. It’s a crazy ending, framed by Murnau in a comedic fashion (tellingly, the guests all continue to laugh at the doorman behind his back), but at least gives the doorman some sense of closing dignity.

Is it needed? Probably not. And, to be honest, it’s probably better to stop at that 80-minute mark, for all the cinematic invention that continues in that coda. But there is no denying that The Last Laugh is a virtuoso piece of film-making, crammed to the rafters with flair and invention, superbly directed and shot and with a towering performance of puffed-up pride turned shambling shame by Jannings (just the right side of hammy). It’s a film that stands as a milestone of cinema as a visual language.

Here Comes the Navy (1934)

Run-of-the-mill odd-couple buddy movie, that somehow landed a nomination for Best Picture

Director: Lloyd Bacon

Cast: James Cagney (Chesty O’Connor), Pat O’Brien (CPO Biff Martin), Gloria Stuart (Dorothy Martin), Frank McHugh (Wilbur ‘Droopy’ Mullins), Dorothy Tree (Gladys), Willard Robertson (Lieutenant Commander), Eddie Acuff (Orderly), George Irving (Admiral)

Why did Here Comes the Navy get nominated for Best Picture? The only answer that makes sense why this run-of-the-mill mix of odd-couple buddy movie and flag-waving recruitment piece ended up in such hallowed company is that it was the only contender Warner Brothers had that year and the full company block vote went behind it. Either way, Here Comes the Navy has disappeared as swiftly as a rock dropping to the bottom of the sea.

Chesty O’Connor (James Cagney) is a happy-go-lucky builder with a chip on his shoulder who takes it badly when Chief Petty Officer Biff Martin (Pat O’Brien) woos his girl Gladys (Dorothy Tree), wins Chesty’s own dance competition with her and even knocks Chesty down in a fight. Chesty decides the best revenge is to join the navy and get on board Martin’s ship USS Arizona for round two. Unfortunately for him, he finds the navy is harder work than expected, with its rigid discipline. Doesn’t stop Chesty continuing his feud with Martin – especially when he falls for Martins sister Dorothy (Gloria Stuart). But will Chesty find honour, decency and a love of duty in him while serving in the navy?

Since the film was made with the full co-operation of the US Navy, you can be pretty confident he will. Bacon’s film zips along in a pacey 85 mins, hitting every expected beat you would expect. It’s almost completely reliable on the charm and comic timing of Cagney, so it’s just as well he’s on fine form, with just the right level of cheek and cynicism alongside his deadly sin of pride. It further helps that he’s sparking much of his odd couple bickering against long-time real-life pal Pat O’Brien, spot on for the stiffer, less entertaining role of the rule-abiding killjoy who can still win a dance contest and will put up his dukes when needed (but only off duty).

The sparring and bickering between these two – with the inevitable heroic deed that brings them together as feuding best pals – is fairly formulaic but decent enough. That’s par for the whole film, which is all a formula delivered exactly to plan, that barely stands out from hundreds of similar movies. It feels rather like a light-and-jolly B-movie, the sort of thing that might pop up before you watch a more prestige product afterwards.

It gets lifted to A-movie status due to the scale from that Naval investment. Here Comes the Navy’s subtle, military-approved, message is that the atmosphere of the navy, its discipline and the pride in the institution of officers and men can turn even the most unlikely waster into a stand-up pride of the service. With that message firmly in place, the film got enviable access to the USS Arizona, with scenes above and below deck, with Chesty and Droopy polishing guns, swabbing decks, loading and firing the guns, climbing on board… every chance is used and to show the navy equipment (several stock clips shows various ships on practice manoeuvres) and the same thing continues when Chesty is re-assigned to the US Naval Air Service, with vast hangers and airships.

Plot wise, among all this impressive military hardware, there is little to get anyone’s creative juices really flowing. It’s all shot with competent professionalism but no real inspiration (or lasting interest) by Lloyd Bacon. Gloria Stuart gives a perfectly fine performance as Martin’s decent, kind sister. Cagney has almost as much chemistry with her, as he does with the tender bond he displays with Frank McHugh’s quietly amusing Droopy. (There is a hint of a homoerotic bond between Cagney and McHugh, that I am pretty sure must have passed the Navy by when they watched the film).

The shenanigans are all fairly amusing, except perhaps for an unfortunate sequence where Cagney blacks up to slip ashore as part of a ticket-of-leave party. The make-up renders him unrecognisable to Martin (!), but that’s not as bad the Black sailor he purchases the ticket from, who is only a few degrees away from the sort of “yes massa” portrait of dimness and docility that filled out the cast of Gone with the Wind.

Aside from that it’s all fine, in a totally forgettable way (I’d be amazed if Cagney had any memory of making the film). It’s main interest today is the way it captures on film two doomed naval vessels. The airship USS Macon that Chesty serves on was lost at sea (fortunately with only two crewmen lost) less than a year after Cagney’s stunt double shinned down a rope mid-air. Even more tragic, the USS Arizona would be sunk at Pearl Harbor seven years later, with 1,177 officers and crew lost, its carcass still lying at the bottom of the harbour today. It’s a tragic footnote to a film that is itself a footnote in Oscar’s history.

A Tale of Two Cities (1936)

Well made Dickens adaptation, that manages to streamline the novel very successfully

Director: Jack Conway

Cast: Ronald Colman (Sydney Carton), Elizabeth Allan (Lucie Manette), Edna May Oliver (Miss Pross), Reginald Owen (C.J. Stryver), Basil Rathbone (Marquis St. Evremonde), Blanche Yurka (Madame Therese De Farge), Henry B. Walthall (Dr. Alexandre Manette), Donald Woods (Charles Darnay), Walter Catlett (John Barsad), Fritz Leiber (Gaspard), H. B. Warner (Theophile Gabelle), Mitchell Lewis (De Farge), Claude Gillingwater (Jarvis Lorry), Billy Bevan (Jerry Cruncher), Isabel Jewell (Seamstress)

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” and “It is a far, far better thing I do now…”. Are there more famous openings and closings in literature than these from Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities? The novel is bought marvellously to life by David O Selznick in his follow-up to David Copperfield. It still might just be definitive. With several impressive actors embodying some of Dicken’s most memorable characters, grand sets and a fabulous mix of faithfulness and pacey condensing, A Tale of Two Cities stands as one of the finest Dickens adaptations.

The plot sticks faithfully to the book: Lucie Manette’s (Elizabeth Allan) father Dr Manette (Henry B Walthall) is recalled to life and released from the Bastille in the 1780s. They travel to England where Lucie Manette falls in love with the heir to the Maquis St Evermonde (Basil Rathbone), Charle Darney (Donald Woods) who has forsaken his families wealth and cruelty. But she is also loved by dissolute-but-brilliant lawyer Sydney Carton (Ronald Colman). When the French Revolution strikes, Darney returns to France to rescue an old family retainer only to be arrested and condemned to death by a mob whipped up by the vengeful Madame De Farge (Blanche Yurka). How far will Carton go to save the man who has the wife and family he has dreamed of?

A Tale of Two Cities pretty much perfectly captures the atmosphere of Dickens’ novel, from its mist-filled opening with a carriage rattling through the French countryside via its vivid bringing to life of a gallery of Dickensian eccentrics through to its closing sections, deep in the heart of Revolutionary France. The novel has been skilfully condensed down by WP Lipscomb and SN Behrman’s script, so that every beat is recognisably in place without the film stretching out with overwhelming length.

It manages to capture the humour in many of Dickens side characters, from the corrupt chancer Barsard, the puffed-up lawyer Stryver to the surprisingly decent graverobber (or Resurrectionist as he prefers) the brilliantly-named Jerry Cruncher. Sequences, such as Darney’s early trial (on trumped up charges of treason) and his brilliant acquittal by Carton (working silently through Stryver) are perfectly executed. The homely gentleness of the Darney family life, that so crucially melts Carton’s cynical heart, are perfectly captured. The heart of the novel is very effectively bought to life.

So is its portrait of a France crammed with injustice, righteous anger and murderous, indiscriminate fury. The trampling of a young boy by the Maquis’ carriage (the Maquis a perfect portrait of imperious arrogance from Basil Rathbone) is shocking, echoed later when a cavalier’s horse tramples a woman at a food riot (an effect only marginally weakened by the fact it’s clearly a dummy). In impressive, Eisenstein-inspired sequences that cut between grand scale and enraged, impassioned faces, the revolution takes full effect with an impressive storming of the Bastille. (These grand sequences, were directed by Jaques Tourner and Val Lewton).

Among the French it’s easy to feel sympathy at first for the De Farges, Mitchell Lewis’ Ernest a genuinely decent man moved to violence after years of provocation. His wife, brilliantly played by Blanche Yurka, is a similarly impassioned witness to cruelty and abuse, but whose fanaticism and unbending fury tips her from a sympathetic if cold figure into a relentless killer who doesn’t care who pays the price of her quest for a personal revenge. Yurka’s grim-eyed obsession is perfectly portrayed in a low-key performance which bubbles with menace. She also has one of the most striking fights in 30s cinema with Edna May Oliver’s (who is outstanding as one of her patented Maiden Aunt figures) Miss Pross.

Finest of all is Ronald Colman, in a role he was so desperate to take he even agreed to shave off the iconic moustache. Colman superbly brings to life the cynical, sardonic lawyer with a real relish but gives his playful drunkenness a deeply melancholic sense of loneliness. When he speaks with Lucie, Colman’s sadly resigned pleasantness expertly communicates both his live, regret and acceptance that he can never speak of his feelings. Colman insisted that he not, as is often the case in adaptations, also play Darney (the book’s crucial plot point that the two men are all-but identical is completely written out) so he could focus on this crucial character, and it pays dividends with possibly a career-best performance.

Colman is essential to the film’s powerfully affecting final sequence, that follows the fate of those condemned to die at the guillotine, his brave acceptance of his fate, expertly tinged with a little touch of fear and a genuine contentment that in sacrifice his life finds meaning. Isabel Jewell makes a fine companion in this sequence as a wrongly condemned seamstress, she and Colman forging a tender and genuinely moving bond. The film finds a real nobility and tragic force in this sequence, while not shirking in the horror of mechanised death or mob rule.

Not everything works perfectly. Jack Conway, who directed most of the dialogue parts, is not the world’s most inspired visualist and while he draws fine performances from the cast, these sequences are strikingly flatter and more theatrical than the more epic sequences. Donald Woods, as Darney, admittedly given very little to work with (also from Dickens), makes a particularly bland Darney while Elizabeth Allan’s Lucie is also less of a dynamic presence than the story really needs.

But these are gripes in a production that is actually both an very effective film and has some striking performances of an expert Dickensian nature with Ronald Colman in particular outstandingly and richly humane, funny and moving. It’s telling that no adaptation since as ever managed to so effectively capture the tone of the novel, communicate the story so skilfully or carry as much pathos, tension and even humour as this one manages. As a Dickens adaptation, it very much the best of times.

Heaven Can Wait (1978)

Deliberately old-fashioned and comforting drama, probably why it was a big hit when released

Director: Warren Beatty, Buck Henry

Cast: Warren Beatty (Joe Pendleton), Julie Christie (Betty Logan), James Mason (Mr Jordan), Jack Warden (Max Corkle), Charles Grodin (Tony Abbott), Dyan Cannon (Julia Farnsworth), Buck Henry (The Escort), Vincent Gardenia (Inspector Krim), Joseph Maher (Sisk), Hamilton Camp (Bentley), Arthur Malet (Everett)

Beatty’s cosily old-fashioned directorial debut – in which, Welles like, he celebrated Oscar nominations for producing, directing, writing and acting – might well be the reason for its financial success. Perhaps a world in turmoil needed a remake of the smooth 1941 studio film Here Comes Mr Jordan, becoming the third adaptation of Harry Segall’s 1938 play. Heaven Can Wait reshuffles a few bits and pieces here and there, while aiming to capture as much of the tone of the original as possible.

Beatty is Joe Pendleton, promising quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams… until, facing certain death in a road accident he is plucked to Heaven by his guardian angel (Buck Henry). But the angel was overzealous, as supervisor Mr Jordan (James Mason) reveals Joe had 50 years to live. With his body cremated, Jordan arranges for Joe to take the body of billionaire Leo Farnsworth, recently murdered by his gold digger wife Julia (Dyan Cannon) and her lover, Farnsworth’s secretary, Tony Abbott (Charles Grodin). In his new body, Joe, inspired by environmentalist Betty Logan (Julie Christie), tries to make his company care while buying the Rams and persuading old coach Max (Jack Warden) that it’s really Joe and he needs his help to train his new body for the Super Bowl.

Heaven Can Wait shifts Here Comes Mr Jordan from the world of boxing to the world of football – possibly when original casting choice, Muhammad Ali, turned it down and Beatty’s high school football experience was a better fit. Ali wasn’t the only sought after legend – Beatty offered the sun and moon to Cary Grant to play Mr Jordan, but not even the presence of Grant’s wife Dyan Cannon could tempt him from retirement.

There are the odd tweaks here and there – the plane to Heaven is now a proto-Concorde for starters – but honestly Heaven Can Wait would have been made almost identically in the 1940s, with its dry wit, gentle romance and the Capraesque idea that the little guy can fix the world’s problems with a little bit of honesty, decency and common sense. There is almost nothing of the cynicism of the 1970s at all. It’s a gently reassuring throwback. Nothing wrong with that, but nothing inventive or original either.

Beatty does a decent job of directing things with a classical gentleness, and he’s also pretty good as the good-natured Joe, a sort of sweetly dim guy obsessed with health food and dodgy saxophone playing (roughly in that order). He’s got an endearing simplicity, the sort of guy who takes ages to work out he’s in a way-station for heaven, bounds into his new life with a chattiness that confuses his army of staff (used to an austere employer) and tries to corral his board of directors with a winningly earnest speech crammed with football metaphors, so intently well-meant it even manages to convince (some of) the crusty bean-counters sitting around the table.

Fish-out-of-water comedy emerges rather nicely out of how bemused both Beatty’s character is at the life he finds himself in, and how politely his staff and employees turn a blind eye to what must be a juddering change in personality of their boss. After all, Beatty and Elaine May’s script lands more than a few subtle digs suggesting Farnsworth must have been quite the dick. His wardrobe is a mix of ludicrous sailor and polo outfits and garish mock military uniforms. He had the staff raise a flag and fire a cannon every day. And his company is mercilessly gutting the environment.

Must be a shock for the staff then, that their new boss keeps popping into a cleaning cupboard on the stairs for surreptitious chats with invisible angels. Or that he corrals them en masse for a good-natured football training session in the grounds. The dry, carefully reserved reactions of these servants – led by Joseph Maher’s perfectly straight-faced butler – is consistently funny.

Also consistently funny are Dyan Cannon (Oscar-nominated) and Charles Grodin as a pair of conniving schemers, trying everything they can think of to pocket Farnsworth’s money. Cannon is hilarious, consistently oscillating between hysterical shock and resigned confusion at the unexpected appearances of ‘Farnsworth’. Grodin is perfect as the dry Abbott, a master of the micro-reaction, loathing his boss while also being pathetically deferential to him and wheedling a parade of schemes to try and dispatch his boss. These two are the film’s stand-out performers and funniest characters.

Not that there isn’t merit elsewhere. James Mason is perhaps the perfect substitute for Claude Rains, dry and suave as Head Angel Jordan and forming a good double act with co-director Buck Henry’s harassed junior angel. Jack Warden gained an Oscar nomination for a warmer, gentler version of his distracted coach from 12 Angry Men. Julie Christie’s chemistry with Beatty is not surprisingly on point, although the script gives her very little to play with for the film’s least developed role.

What is surprising though is the sudden bleak note Heaven Can Wait ends on: Joe will eventually lose all memories of his previous lives. It’s so sudden, I had to remind myself the same thing happens in the original (but with a bit more forewarning). Here, it emerges out of left-field and feels unbearably harsh, as if Heaven is cleaning up a clerical error by wiping Joe from existence. The film fails to prep us for this possibility – in the way the original did – as if it was felt the danger of being wiped from existence would spoil all that apeing of 40’s lightness (in which case why not just change it?).

Heaven Can Wait was garlanded by Oscar nominations (including those four for Beatty) but won only one for its admittedly clever set design which plays up the grandiose nonsense of Farnsworth’s mansion (I enjoyed Cannon’s bedroom with its matching fabric covering every wall and surface). Was that because it was so gently reassuringly, old fashioned, but fundamentally a very close remake? It’s a sentimental, charming little crowd-pleaser the sort of thing that perhaps made everyone feel better at the time, a decent, inoffensive film.

The Thief of Bagdad (1924)

Fairbanks swings into action in this grand-scale epic that’s still gloriously entertaining

Director: Raoul Walsh

Cast: Douglas Fairbanks (Ahmed), Snitz Edwards (His associate), Charles Belcher (Holy man), Julanne Johnston (Princess), Anna May Wong (Mongol slave), Sôjin Kamiyama (Mongol prince), Brandon Hurst (Caliph), Tote du Crow (Soothsayer), Noble Johnson (Indian prince)

There was perhaps no bigger star of the silent screen than Douglas Fairbanks. The Thief of Bagdad was his Magnum Opus, lushly filmed (over a year in the making) adaptation of the Arabian Nights into a swashbuckling epic where our bare-chested hero leaps and bounds over every obstacle on his way to heroic glory. It remains wildly entertaining, a pacey thrill ride crammed with excellent stunts and impressive special effects.

Fairbanks is Ahmed, a good-for-nothing thief who disdains the rules, saying ‘What I want, I take’. How can this guy learn a little humility? Perhaps from the sight of a beautiful woman. Ahmed sneaks into the palace (via a magic gravity-defying rope) to filch treasure, falling instantly in love with the Princess (Julanne Johnston). Ahmed passes himself as a Prince to join the suitors looking to win her hand. Among them is the villainous Prince of the Mongols (Sôjin Kamiyama) who plans to conquer Bagdad, with the aide of the Princess’ treacherous slave (Anna May Wong). After he reveals his identity, and is banished, will Ahmed still do everything he can to save the city?

Of course he will! Along the way he’ll perform a parade of stunts and fits of athletic derring-do that helped make Fairbanks a beloved household name. Fairbanks is larger-than-life; in more ways than one, he’s a master of the gesticulating school of silent cinema, throwing his arms up and twisting his body into a series of emotional poses. Here he has the chiselled frame (on display for virtually the whole film) that comes from over a year of running, jumping, climbing and throwing himself through things.

A large part of the fun of The Thief of Bagdad is soaking in Fairbanks’ natural charisma, from his introduction feigning drowsiness at a water fountain to pick pockets, to the magic carpet riding athleticism that ends the film. The film offers a parade of stunts carefully worked out to the minutest detail. A bounds in and out of giant pots. He climbs up ropes and launches himself through windows. He fights monsters and jumps from walls in athletic leaps. He balances precariously on high ledges. Only Buster Keaton rivalled his obsession with showstopping stunts.

It’s not surprising Raoul Walsh’s film sits back and keeps the camera largely in mid-shot so we can soak up all the action. This is massively to the benefit of the enormous sets, brilliantly designed by William Cameron Menzies, which tower up several stories. The mighty buildings and city walls of Bagdad, with its gate looking like a giant gaping maw, are particularly impressive. The city walls constantly have people walking them to confirm what we are looking at is real. The frame stretches to the mighty scope of the film (and of course, Fairbanks’ was hardly designed for the intimacy of the close-up).

The set-piece special effects and sets also bring the more magical Arabian Nights moments to life. A rope, charmed to spring up and suspend itself in mid-air (in actuality an illusion captured by filming upside down, which is almost more impressive when you think of Fairbanks clinging upside down to a rope). A collapsing pot, a cloak of invisibility thrown around Ahmed, magic dust that brings to life your heart’s desire. And, of course, the impressive flying carpet (a steel platform on intricate wires, dangerous enough that it was the last thing filmed). There is a real magic about these practical effects, just as there is something impressive about the real tigers guarding the palace.

The Thief of Bagdad arguably starts slow: our introduction to the thief takes up much of the first thirty minutes and it is nearly an hour before the real meat of the story takes off. Much of the final act sees the thief engaged on an epic quest via a host of locations – caves of fire! An underwater kingdom! A palace in the clouds! – that doesn’t always make a lot of narrative sense, but looks impressive. Of course the real focus is less on the story and more the thrills of Fairbanks jumping through cavernous flames or duelling a series of fierce creatures (which, to be honest, look like the sort of rubbery abominations Doctor Who would spend the 80s tackling).

The story frequently flies by with very little sense. The machinations of the Prince of Mongols (an effectively sinister Sôjin Kamiyama) are not always clear, but certainly threatening enough. The Thief of Bagdad sees this wicked prince’s schemes come to fruition in a surprisingly terrifying palace siege (though it also features such laugh-out-loud ridiculousness as a villainous sidekick stirring boiling oil in a jar the size of a swimming pool). The he film’s most interesting performers are on the side of the villain – Anna May Wong is particularly fine as the duplicitous servant – making their dastardly deeds engaging, even if they are not always logical.

It’s perhaps not surprising that the real villains are played by actual Asian actors, while the heroes are all white Americans playing Asians. But that’s par for Hollywood’s course – and one of those is Noble Johnson virtually ‘whited-up’ as the Prince of India (interestingly the other potential suitor is played by a woman, Mathilde Comont in a fine comedic performance). Julanne Johnstone’s Princess, on the other hand, makes little impact (there must have been very little left to play with when sharing the scene with Fairbanks), with the same true for the rest of the court while Snitz Edwards is a rather uncomfortable stereotype as the thief’s assistant.

There are other dated moments – it’s hard not to imagine that no film today would have its lead character storm into a mosque and announce all its teaching bunkum – while a call to prayer sequence, obeyed by all mid-chase, is awkwardly played for comedy. Other parts must have looked silly at the time, not least Fairbanks’ awkward slow-motion walking when fighting under the sea (no idea how the thief breathes down there). But then you’ll get a daring climb of a giant statue or Fairbanks leaping on a horse and riding through some gorgeously filmed desert at breakneck speed and it’s all fine.

The Thief of Bagdad isn’t trying to be more than entertainment – and its careful ‘show the money’ framing and filming offers very little in the way of cinematic invention (unlike its stunts and cutting-edge special effects). But it’s extremely impressively mounted and very good fun, exactly the sort of rip-roaring entertainment its star made his stock-in-trade.

The Country Girl (1954)

Acting with a capital A in this ultra-serious addiction drama, that makes its points with heavy hand

Director: George Seaton

Cast: Bing Crosby (Frank Elgin), Grace Kelly (Georgie Elgin), William Holden (Bernie Dodds), Anthony Ross (Philip Cook), Gene Reynolds (Larry), Jacqueline Fontaine (Lounge singer)

Adapted from Clifford Odet’s play, George Seaton’s The Country Girl is serious with a capital S, with acting with a capital A from its stars, both of whom (to the delight of the Oscars) play wildly against type. Frank Elgin (Bing Crosby) is a faded song-and-dance man, a weak-willed people pleaser who hit the bottle big time, filled with guilt about the death of his young son. He’s married to the dowdy Georgie (Grace Kelly), whose whole life has become an endless chore propping up the feeble Frank. Elgin is hired by hot-shot Broadway director Bernie Dodds (William Holden) for his new musical. Bernie soaks up Frank’s lies that Georgie is a demanding, controlling bully rather than Frank’s go-to comfort blanket. Can Georgie hold Frank together for the previews, despite Bernie’s misguided belief that Frank would fare better if she was shipped home?

The answer, not surprisingly, is no. The Country Girl in many ways, it quite Victorian in its sense of domestic tragedy. The death of Frank and Georgie’s son – killed by traffic when Frank let go of his hand for some publicity photos – has a real classic melodrama ring to it, a feeling added to by the Frank’s memories coming storming back whenever he hears the refrain of the song he had been recording moments before the accident. It’s the cause for a series of scenes of half-cut self-loathing from Frank, who powers his way through life both through the bottle and whining at Georgie to fix his problems.

Frank is an innate people-pleaser, desperate to be adored. (He even pathetically asks a barman, between shots, if he likes him). But behind that is a demanding prima-donna, turned incessant self-pitier. He moans about everything to Georgie – his lack of a dresser, being pestered by his under-study, the pressure of learning the lines and carrying the show – and then instantly assures Bernie moments later that he’s delighted with everything. Worse than that, he spins constant lies that Georgie does everything she can to batter his confidence so can control his life and give meaning to hers.

Frank even shifts his attention seeking suicide attempts and hotel smashing drunken outbursts onto her, painting himself as a victim too decent to fight back against his bullying wife (even using repurposed speeches from his old stage triumphs as material). It’s music to the ears of William Holden’s Bernie, filled with bitterness at his own ex-wife who he sees as a jealous burden holding back his own career. He laps up believing that Georgie’s demands are her self-important power plays rather than filtered demands from his cowardly star.

Bing Crosby took on his biggest acting challenge, miles away from his aw-shucks Oscar-winning Going My Way charm. Crosby put in extreme effort – rather like Frank with Bernie, George Seaton ruthlessly coached him – but the problem is you can see it all. Seemingly every scene sees Bing shaking, on the edge of tears, looking into the middle distance, and battening down the musical richness of his voice into a weak mumble. There is a lot of earnest, sad-eyed starring in The Country Girl and this softly-spoken, rather mannered performance puts everything out there (the film even throws in a few in-play musical numbers, which Crosby delivers as per his usual style, so that we can really soak up the difference in his performance).

It’s similar with Grace Kelly, her glamour disguised as much as humanly possible under an ill-fitting cardigan, glasses and bags painted under her eyes. Much like Crosby, Kelly goes all out to wring every emotion possible out of this bitter, tragic woman who loves and deeply resents her manipulative husband. Kelly won an Oscar – beating Judy Garland in A Star is Born (allegedly by about 6 votes) – and the performance smacks of the sort of Acting Oscar loves (in many ways it’s a miracle Crosby lost to Brando’s subtle work in On the Waterfront). She even has a late speech, where Georgie lets out all her buttoned-down resentment, that has ‘for your consideration’ written all over it. Much like Croby, its very mannered – you admire its professionalism but can see all the effort.

Both stars hard-work is particularly noticeable when compared to the easy naturalism of Holden, who has the least flashy role but is arguably the best thing in it. He subtly downplays the eagerness which Bernie transfers his own marital resentments on to the Elgin’s marriage, just as he lets Bernie’s growing frustrations with both Elgins develop naturally. He even manages to make Bernie’s late intense attraction to Georgie not seem like it comes as wildly out of left field as the script make it.

The Country Girl works through its melodramatic events with a largely predictable series of beats, as Elgin goes from sweating through rehearsals to smashing up a bar, to drying out in his dressing room. The photography adds a lot of atmosphere, with shadow-cast moments adding a real sense of oppression to the film’s gloomy progress (there is a particularly lovely shot of Kelly buried in the shadows in the theatre wings). There are affecting moments, even if the film lays many of them on somewhat heavily with a trowel. But Seaton’s dialogue is strong, even if it is somewhat melodramatic and his directing is sound.

And you can’t deny the effort he gained from the two stars, even if their performances are so earnestly committed that it becomes a little overbearing to see the Acting in action. It’s fascinating to wonder how much more effective The Country Girl might have been if it had not played almost all of its emotional beats so heavily to the max, but had trusted us to discover the emotion for ourselves.

Five Star Final (1931)

Overlooked gutter press drama, a bit melodramatic, but with strong performances

Director: Mervyn LeRoy

Cast: Edward G. Robinson (Joseph W Randall), Marian Marsh (Jenny Townsend), HB Warner (Michael Townsend), Anthony Bushell (Philip Weeks), George E. Stone (Ziggie Feinstein), Frances Starr (Nancy (Voorhees) Townsend), Ona Munson (Kitty Carmody), Boris Karloff (T Vernon Isopod), Aline MacMahon (Miss Taylor), Oscar Apfel (Bernard Hinchecliffe), Purnell Pratt (French), Robert Elliott (Brannegan)

The cynical newspaperman was a popular genre of the 1930s, most famously The Front Page (largely due to its wildly popular offspring His Girl Friday). Five Star Final (the title refers to a famous gutter press font), adapted from Louis Weitzenkorn’s hit Broadway play. Weitzenkorn was a former editor of New York Evening Graphic, a paper so prurient it was known as the “porno-Graphic”. Proving no one is more keen on their work than a poacher turned gamekeeper, Weitzenkorn’s play is a vicious attack on a newspaper industry that couldn’t give a hoot about the impact of its actions so long as its selling hundreds of thousands of copies daily into the hands of a muck-raking public.

Five Star Final’s hero feels like an idealised self-portrait of Weitzenkorn. Joseph W Randall (Edward G. Robinson) is editor of the New York Evening Gazette, a gutter-press rag which, with weary baby-steps, he has tried to drag up market for years much to the objection of publisher Bernard Hinchecliffe (Oscar Apfel), who firmly believes that salacious stories (with dubious, hypocritical moral angles) about sex and violence is what the people really want. Randall agrees to go muck-raking, dragging back into the limelight Nancy Voorhees (Frances Starr), a stenographer acquitted twenty years ago of killing the no-good boss who impregnated her. Nancy is now married to Townsend (HB Warner), who has raised her daughter Jenny (Marian Marsh) as his own. Jenny is about to marry scion of wealth Philip (Anthony Bushell) and is utterly unaware of the time bomb Randall is about to explode in their lives – with tragic consequences.

Five Star Final is, in many ways, interesting and engaging than The Front Page, even if it takes its story of journalistic ethics relentlessly seriously. It’s view of the newspaper industry is devoid of any hope for journalistic ethics. The paper reports events with a devil-may-care salaciousness using splashes sensationalist headlines without any care for their impact. Hinchecliffe and his staff are utterly unconcerned about morality, or indeed any higher calling to their trade: their focus is solely on circulation. They’re not alone in this – their rival papers have taken to literally launching oil-chucking assaults on newsstands selling the Gazette and countless other outlets climb on board the Voorhees story the second the paper drags it back to life.

The staff are, almost to a man, utterly devoid of any sense of shame. Recent recruit, femme fatale turned journalist Kitty Carmody (Ona Munson, on fine morally ambivalent form) is happy to use any wiles to pursue a story, her first instinct when confronting tragedy to demand a photo. She’s but a beginner compared to Boris Karloff’s reprehensible Isopod, his genteel manner the only thing left of his past as a defrocked priest (for seducing various women), now a tipsy sewer-rat who thinks nothing of dressing as a priest to wean embarrassing facts out of the Townsends and barely shrugs at the impact of his actions. The reporters are without any decency. They don’t even have the crack-a-jack wit of their compatriots in Front Page: you don’t enjoy spending time with them you just want to shower afterwards.

But perhaps even worse, in a way, is Robinson’s Randall – because he knows what he is doing is wrong, wrong, wrong (in case we miss this, we are repeatedly shown Randall washing his hand’s Pilate-like, in sudsy guilt-shedding). In one of his finest performances, Robinson nails the acid-sharp patter, but also his self-destructive embracing of his trade’s worst aspects: his arrogance and ability to beat down his own conscience being his Achilles heels. Robinson’s complex performance implies Randall so disgusted with Hinchecliffe and his ilk, he wants to demonstrate their moral vileness by spinning the paper even deeper. And he does it all from a position of believing he’s better than everyone around him (“put me on a cigar box and I’d be above our readers”), while his actions show him as morally bankrupt as the rest.

The moral cut-and-thrust of the newspaper world dominates the film. LeRoy gives it some real visual interest, from the opening shots of the phone operators taken from ‘inside’ the exchange (their bodies framed through wires) to the skilful split-screen effect used for later phone calls. By comparison, it’s very easy to see the domestic bliss-turned-tragedy in the Townsend home as from a far more theatrical, melodramatic film. Much of this is shot and played with a slightly hokey, home-spun sentimentality – while Frances Starr, in particular, is prone to the sort of middle-distance starring that wouldn’t seem out of place in a matinee.

But you can excuse it for the surprising power of the restraint LeRoy stages a late-act tragedy in the Townsend home, all filmed with use of shadows, implication and shots of agonised hands clutching door frames. HB Warner finds an emotional depth in a man forced to spin personal anguish while Marian Marsh and Anthony Bushell break out of otherwise thankless parts as oblivious lovers to lend real moral force to late outbursts.

But it’s the assault on the gutter press – literally so in the final image of the film, that sees a copy of the Gazette, smeared with mud, washed down a drain – that powers the film. It’s done with a real outrage, that you feel stemmed from Weitzenkorn’s self-loathing. The film relies on the excellence of Robinson’s restrained performance of moral ambiguity (he also has a lovely interplay with his Jiminy Cricket, Aline MacMahon’s secretary) to stop it being a little too shrill and insistent (which it still is at points), but as an impassioned cry for some sort of decency in the media you can see the roots of films like Network in it. Definitely worth uncovering.

The Golem: How He Came into the World (1920)

Archetypal early horror, that presents a sympathetic view of the creature and its creator

Director: Paul Wegener, Carl Boese

Cast: Albert Steinrück (Rabbi Loew), Paul Wegener (The Golem), Lyda Salmonova (Miriam), Ernst Deutsch (Loew’s assistant), Lothar Müthel (Squire Florian), Otto Gebühr (Emperor), Hans Sturm (Rabbi Jehuda), Max Kronert (Gatekeeper), Greta Schröder (Lady), Loni Nest (Little Girl), Fritz Feld (Jester)

In the Jewish Ghetto of 16^th century Prague, persecution is an every-day event under the capricious rule of the Emperor (Otto Gebühr). To protect his people, Rabbi Loew (Albert Steinrück) creates the Golem (Paul Wegener), a forbidding clay giant, granted life by the magic words of a demon, placed in an amulet on his chest. At first, the Golem seems the harbinger of a new prosperity to the Jewish people, but the envy of Loew’s assistant (Ernst Deutsch) risks twisting the Golem into dark deeds that imperil everyone.

The Golem was co-director and star Paul Wegener’s third attempt to bring the legend to the screen (the first to be set in the correct period, so it’s also a form of prequel). It arrives as an atmospheric masterpiece with touches of Murnau and Lang and advance signs of Caligari, a richly filmed exploration of early horror on a set full of deliberately disjointed angular buildings adding to the unsettling unease. There are flashes of inspired visual magic throughout, while the concept of man’s creation struggling to understand its own humanity (or otherwise) and its place in the world inspired several films, not least James Whale’s Frankenstein (clear echoes of the creatures unfortunate meeting with a child at the lake can be seen in the Golem’s final encounter with a child).

But The Golem is not really a horror piece, more a tragedy of a newly born creature who, due to abuse of its powers, becomes a force of destruction despite its curious nature. Paul Wegener’s Golem is a restrained, even gentle creature, whose subtle glances suggest an intriguing, questioning mind eager to learn more about his surroundings. Whatever dark magic led to his creation, the Golem never feels like a creature of natural violence, even while it can cause great destruction through its relentless, blade-resistant body. The real villains are men, and the dangers their desires cause.

The Golem walks a fine line in its portrayal of Jewish culture. It’s easy to see old antisemitic tropes in the Jewish population’s robes and wild eyes (and in their rapturously cult-like praying, shot from a series of unsettling images) and while Rabbi Loew’s experiment may be about protecting people, it’s powered by dark magic – exactly the crimes the Emperor believes Jewish people to be guilty of. But, this is a film where the Jewish people are the innocent victims of persecution. With the persecutors at court, portrayed as spoilt and shallow, giggling at parties and living the high life.

Similarly Lothar Müthel’s Squire, a gentile secretly wooing the Rabbi’s daughter, may or may not be sincere in his intentions, but is certainly presented as a manipulative and secretive seductor. It’s just another sign of how Jewish people in The Golem are, exploited and powerless in the hands of others. Rabbi Loew is doing all he can to build a better life for his people and the film holds his motives up for praise, even as it shows the dark compromises he makes for it.

Because, even if the Golem is benign and only harms when ordered, it comes from dark powers. In a striking sequence, the demonic head of Astaroth (looking very much like Nosferatu) swirls spectrally around the bodies of Loew and his assistant (encased in a ring of fire), offering up the dark words to give life to the clay man. When corrupted by dark intensions, the Golem is a terrifyingly relentless character, sending bodies flying, twirling flaming logs around like they are matches, punching through doors and pursuing those it’s ordered to destroy with Terminator-like determination.

But the Golem can equally be a force for good. It’s strength saves the Emperor and court from a falling building – a neat camera effect that sees it push aside falling debris and fracture a falling ceiling (a truly striking visual image). On its own devices, it yearns for a sense of freedom and purpose. It starts to clamp its hand over its chest to prevent the amulet that gives it life from being removed whenever the Rabbi doesn’t need it and its eventual downfall comes from its concern for children. What seems to anger it is being taken for granted as little more than a tool by those abusing its strength.

This comes neatly to life in Wegener and Boese’s exceedingly atmospheric film in its impressively constructed Gothic set, where the ghetto is somewhere between a rickety shanty town and a nightmarish fairy tale parlour. It contrasts well with the grandness of the court, full of decadent feasting, while Loew’s cave-like home features a winding staircase like a spiralling trap. The imagery is beautifully done in its simplicity and cinematographer Karl Freund’s eye for the simple, affecting moment alongside the grand horrors: a close-up of subtle facial expressions humanising the Golem is as memorable as the grand flame-spreading ruin havoc it wreaks on the ghetto.

The Golem is in many ways a sort of fairy tale, with fairy tale logic, where Loew makes a terrible bargain and pays a price. It makes conventional romantic decisions, not least suggesting that the Squire may be sincere in some of his expressions of love and falling shy of condemning Loew’s assistant’s love for his daughter as a destructive piece of possessiveness. There is a truly odd sequence where Loew uses his magical powers to effectively screen a home-movie of the history of the Jewish people (met with sniggering mockery from the court) which feels like its popped in from a very different film, and a reminder of the film’s sometimes helter-skelter relationship with logic.

But it’s a film that largely wants to tell a humanitarian message. And it reminds you that Wegener may have spent the war making theatre for the Nazis, but he also spent it hiding Jewish friends. It’s told with a true visual beauty and it creates, thank to Wegener’s fascinating performance, an intriguing and sympathetic monster.

Mister Roberts (1955)

Dry and stagey version of a theatre hit, that never quite comes to life cinematically

Director: John Ford, Mervyn LeRoy (Ward Bond, Joshua Logan)

Cast: Henry Fonda (Lt Jnr Gd Doug Roberts), James Cagney (Lt Cmd Morton), William Powell (Doc), Jack Lemmon (Ensign Frank Pulver), Betsy Palmer (Lt Ann Girard), Ward Bond (CPO Dowdy), Ken Curtis (Dolan), Philip Carey (Mannion), Nick Adams (Reber), Perry Lopez (Rodrigues), Patrick Wayne (Bookser), Harry Carey Jnr (Stefanowski)

Henry Fonda hadn’t made a film for almost seven years, spending the intervening years collecting garlands on Broadway: and a lot of those were for his over 1,000 performances of Mister Roberts. When the hit play came to the screen, he was the only choice (even if Fonda looked a bit long-the-tooth for a junior lieutenant). Fonda was less than happy with the film – despite its financial success and Oscar nominations – and it’s easy to see why. This is an uneasy mix of awkwardly opened up filmic sweep and stagy set up, with the original’s saltiness watered down to gain Naval co-operation.

Fonda is Lt Jnr Grade Doug Roberts, second-in-command of naval cargo ship Reluctant (known as the Bucket). It’s 1945 and the ship is under the tyrannical command of Lt Commander Morton (James Cagney), a lazy placeman riding Robert’s organised shirttails to career success. That’s why he’s unwilling to grant Roberts’ wish to be transferred to a combat ship so he can do his bit. Roberts is the buffer between Morton and the crew, Morton taking any opportunity he to impose his Bligh-like authority through punishments. How will the power struggle between the two men play out?

The most interesting thing about Mister Roberts is the immense turmoil of its making, burning through no less than four directors. Ford butted heads with Fonda (never the easiest guy in the world), who felt he knew far the material better than Ford. This eventually led to a punch-up and Ford hitting the bottle big-time before he was sent to a sanatorium. Ward Bond took over before Mervyn LeRoy was shipped in. LeRoy claimed to have directed over 90% of the film (allegedly in Ford’s style), before he too was replaced by Logan, the original Broadway director, who only didn’t get the job in the first place because Fonda had also fallen out with him. Logan felt the recut script ripped the heart out of the play and, like Fonda, that the film was not a patch on the original.

This chaos perhaps explains why this feels like such a bland and stagey affair. There is the odd widescreen shot of Reluctant puffing through the seas, or Fonda surveying the panorama. But these are outweighed by static camera set-ups of a sound-stage recreation of the ship. Scenes play out in angles that seem to basically replicate the way they were set on stage (most strikingly, a scene where the crew stare out at the nurses on the island through binoculars – you can almost picture the sailors peering out into the stalls). It’s the worst type of ‘opened-out’ film adaptations, where the opening-out is restricted solely to the odd widescreen shot of a vista while the rest of the film is shot and staged like it’s still in a theatre.

On top of this, Fonda and Logan was probably right that a lot of the play’s energy was lost when its harsher beats were trimmed. It’s not a surprise the saltier dialogue was thrown overboard. But Morton was changed from a Queeg-like bully into a broader, comic character, a ludicrous martinet whose obsession with his palm-tree pot-plant was dialled up to the max. James Cagney gives a broad performance, either frothing at the mouth or fainting away in fury. He’s such an absurd figure, he can’t be seen as a genuine threat, possibly because the Navy could not abide the idea that a bully who placed his own career before his crew’s wellbeing could ever land a command.

It rather mutes the more satirical points about the unpredictability of rigid command structures. You can still see beats of it in the film’s recurrent, slightly bizarre, ‘now hear this’ announcements over the intercom (a surprisingly M*A*S*H-ish touch) or in some of the more mad-cap destructive elements of Lemmon’s slacker Ensign Pulver. Just as the crew’s poor moral and willingness to find ever more obscure reasons to shirk duty might have played more into criticism of the domineering navy regime on stage. Not here.

With a slightly neutered content and flat direction, what Mister Roberts relies on is the strength of its performances. It certainly got a trio of legends and an up-and-comer destined for great things. A very fine Fonda, with that long experience, gives his trademarked decency mixed with a sensitivity for his men and bitterness at his commander. It plays out with an indulgent fatherly regard for his men and a subtle cheek for his captain. His disgust for Morton is tangible as is his emotion at the crew’s regard.

Equally good is William Powell, in his final role, an archly dry commentator on events, as playful forging whisky as he is quietly amused at the crew’s wild attempts to escape their duty. Jack Lemmon Oscar-winning turn as Pulver was an early display of both the manic comic energy, tinged with an adolescent sexual excitement, that he bought to several later roles. But he also manages to find some genuine moments of emotional depth. Cagney blisters in a 2D role, but few do bombast better.

But Mister Roberts frequently feels a little slow and dry, and it’s never quite funny or zany enough for what it’s trying to do. Not surprising, since Ford and LeRoy are hardly anyone’s idea of satirical, screwball directors. When it does go for zany energy, it ends up making its characters look like dicks – the crew’s shore leave (after a year on ship) is clearly meant to be amusing (Fonda gives them a ‘boys-will-by-boys’ smile). But the actions described (trashing an ambassador’s house, ripping clothes off women, turning a dinner party into a brawl) sounds more like drunken louts than charming rogues (hard not to feel Morton isn’t more than a little bit right to be furious).

It says a lot that the broad comedy lands less well than the serious moments – especially as the film’s sudden tragic ending is its most effective moment. The stagy, dry production feels like it has made only the most awkward transition to screen – I suspect Fonda was right to wish more people had seen it on stage than on celluloid.

Hedda (2025)

An imaginative Ibsen reworking that works brilliantly in some places but doesn’t make enough of an impact

Director: Nia DaCosta

Cast: Tessa Thompson (Hedda Gabler), Nina Hoss (Eileen Lovborg), Imogen Poots (Thea Clifton), Tom Bateman (George Tesman), Nicholas Pinnock (Judge Roland Brack), Finbar Lynch (Professor Greenwood), Mirren Mack (Tabita Greenwood), Jamael Westman (David), Saffron Hocking (Jane Ji), Kathryn Hunter (Bertie)

Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler is pretty much the closest you get to a female Hamlet: complex, multi-layered, torn between envy and vulnerability, selfishness and frustrated yearning, independence and stupefying domesticity. y Nia DaCosta’s intriguing adaptation mixes in some fascinating ideas but never quite lands with the force and energy it needs to really impact the audience.

DaCosta moves the action from nineteenth-century Sweden to a house party in 1950s England, in the palatial home of debt-ridden academic George Tesman (Tom Bateman) and his austerely cool wife Hedda Gabler (Tessa Thompson). George is making a desperate pitch for a professorship to repay his debts to sinister Judge Brack (Nicholas Pinnock), who seems more interested in getting payment-in-kind from Hedda.

Hedda affects a distanced, disinterested manner – until the arrival of her old flame Eileen Lovborg (Nina Hoss), with her new partner Thea (Imogen Poots) in tow. Eileen and Thea have written a revelatory new book (currently only one draft copy exists) that places Eileen in the driving seat for gaining George’s professorship. Shaken, Hedda instigates a campaign to destroy Eileen, based either on desperation, deep jealousy or self-loathing, that plays out during the increasingly debauched, night-long party.

There are so many good ideas in Hedda, it’s disappointing that the final product is so curiously uninvolving. DaCosta’s film, sharply directed with a lovely ‘bright young things’ flair mixed with some Du Maurier gothic menace, looks fabulous and confidently mixes intense character study with illicit sex, dramatic gunshots and desperate fisticuffs. The transplanting of Ibsen’s original to a new setting is surprisingly smooth and the idea to compress the whole story (which takes place over a couple of days in the original) to a single night does at points give it a propulsive energy, especially as characters’ inhibitions increasingly fracture under the influence of drink.

The best innovation in Hedda is translating Hedda’s old lover Eilert Lovborg into Eileen. This switch opens up a rich vein of possibilities which the film embraces in its most successful moments. Hedda has turned her back on her own sexuality to claim a place in society: a sexuality Eileen flaunts in front of her male peers, her costuming an intriguing fusing of styles. Hedda’s envy of Thea taking her place now has the double tinge of knowing that Thea – who has left her family and become more of an intellectual partner than Hedda ever was – is also a braver, more committed person than Hedda.

It also blows open even further the cosy, drawing-room, closed-shop nature of this world, where George and the peers he is so desperate to appeal to withdraw to private rooms for clubbable drinks and smutty gossip about girls. Professor Greenwood (a reptilian Finbar Lynch) drags around a trophy wife (Mirren Mack) whom he treats with indifference right up until exploding in fury at her cuckolding him. Judge Brack (a vilely smooth Nicholas Pinnock) alternates between patronising women and looming like a predator over them. George stands out as a genuinely decent man here, respectful of Eileen and uncomfortable with overt masculinity, but even he still sees Hedda’s place as tending to hearth and home rather than a true equal.

This theme of sexual politics comes roaring into life thanks to Nina Hoss’ magnetically charismatic performance, embodying Eileen with a swaggering, intellectual confidence that hides a deeper fragility that’s only just keeping her on the wagon. A wagon she spectacularly falls off (due to Hedda’s prodding) in an attempt to show she can be one of the boys, culminating in an attempt to barnstormingly dominate a room, drunkenly unaware (despite George’s efforts to warn her) that her lake-water soaked shirt is clinging suggestively to her body to the slathering delight of her male audience.

Hoss’ performance is brilliant, collapsing from assured distance, via frantic nervous energy, into wild-eyed desperate vulnerability. Charting an opposite course is Imogen Poots, very good indeed as Thea who feels like one of life’s doormats (not helped by the hideously unflattering dress Hedda insists she wears) but who reveals deep strength of character and determination. The film’s finest sequences revolve around these two, who offer the film’s most intriguing and best-explored modernisation. Credit also to Nicholas Pinnock’s marvellously predatory Judge Brack and Tom Bateman’s decent-but-timid George, a man so sheltered that raucous sex jokes fly obliviously over his head.

It’s unfortunate that the film stumbles more with its portrayal of Hedda. I’m not sure Hedda manages to really grasp the conflicting depths of its lead character. Tessa Thompson gives a committed performance, but it’s hard not to feel the English accent vocally constrains her (why not just let her use her own?) and the film rarely gives her a chance to fully explore the character’s depths. We should feel there is an explosive cauldron of feelings under Hedda’s surface, but only rarely (if at all) does the film ever manage to pierce it, rarely getting to grasp with the character’s conflicting impulses, settling more for an Iago-like drive to destroy, based on jealousy.

Hedda also misses a slight trick, I feel, by not playing up Hedda’s potential outsider nature in 1950s England via her race. (There is a throwaway comment on her ‘dusky skin’, but in a film of colour-blind casting, with the most powerful character played by a Black actor, it doesn’t land.) And making Hedda a bohemian contemptuous of high society doesn’t sit well with her obsession with her father’s status, or her desire to control her high surroundings.

It contributes to a film that never quite manages to come to life as it should, because we never quite understand our lead character, whose coldness and distance extends to us as well as the characters. In a film awash with good ideas, it’s a fatal flaw, and Hedda never quite catches fire emotionally or thematically as it should, because Hedda herself is curiously underserved and under-explored.

PS: Years ago, I played George Tesman in a production of Hedda Gabler where Tom Bateman played Eilert Loveborg. He was (of course!) brilliant, and it was a personal delight to see him as Tesman here (as well as a little odd, I won’t lie!), just one of many perfectly judged performances he’s given in his career.