Film. Release. Repeat Blogathon: You Can’t Run Away from It (dir. Dick Powell, 1956)

January 9, 2026 / nitrateglow / 8 Comments

This post was written for the Film. Release. Repeat Blogathon hosted by Hamlette’s Soliloquy and The Midnite Drive-In. Check out their blogs for more articles on remakes both good and bad.

In 1998, filmmaker Gus Van Sant offended all that was sacred when he chose to remake Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. While shot in lurid color and set in the 1990s, the Van Sant Psycho was virtually shot for shot and line for line the same as the 1960 original. However, what resulted was not another great movie. Quite the opposite. The new actors lent different (and often awful) line readings of the same Joseph Stefano dialogue, giving the movie a distinct feel. Where the old movie inspired dread, the newer one played more like a trashy comedy.

In a 2005 interview with the New York Times, Van Sant admitted his Psycho remake was an artistic failure, but as an experiment in adaptation, the results were intriguing:

“”You can’t copy a film,” he said. “If I hold a camera, it’s different than if Irving Penn holds it. Even if it’s in the same place, it will magically take on his character. Which was part of the experiment. Our ‘Psycho’ showed that you can’t really appropriate. Or you can appropriate, but it’s not going to be the same thing.”

You probably wonder why the hell I’m starting off a review of You Can’t Run Away From It— a remake of It Happened One Night— with information about the infamous Psycho remake. That’s because the Van Sant Psycho and the 1956 musical remake You Can’t Run Away From It have more in common than you’d think.

They both illustrate the same point: even the closest remakes of a classic can never capture what made the original so special. Different directors, different actors, different eras—they all add up to something new. You Can’t Run Away From It is a perfect example of that principle. While it is close enough to the original in terms of plot beats and dialogue, it doesn’t come close to recapturing the proverbial lightning in a bottle.

Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert in the immortal *It Happened One Night*. Image source: IMDB

It Happened One Night is one of the great popular successes of the 1930s. Despite being headed by a pair of stars who had to be forced into making it, Frank Capra’s 1934 romantic comedy was a critical and commercial darling. Not only did it rake in money and awards, it also became the Ur text of the screwball comedy genre which flourished in the ‘30s and ‘40s.

The story follows Ellie Andrews (Claudette Colbert in the 1934 film, June Allyson in the 1956 remake), a spoiled heiress kidnapped by her overprotective father after she elopes with a gold-digging scoundrel. Though locked up on a yacht, Ellie escapes and hits the road with the intention of reuniting with her husband. Though clever enough to evade the police her father has sent after her, Ellie has been sheltered her entire life and has a hard time dealing with life as it is experienced by working class people.

Enter Peter Warne (Clark Gable in 1934, Jack Lemmon in 1956), a down-on-his-luck reporter who sees in Ellie a chance for the hot scoop that could revive his career. He’ll help her reunite with her husband if she gives him a lucrative interview about her experiences on the road. The two become reluctant allies as they hide from police and potential informers out to turn Ellie in for the reward money from her anxious father. And of course, they fall in love along the way.

What makes It Happened One Night so special? Robert Riskin’s witty, well-paced script (based on a short story by Samuel Hopkins Adams) is certainly a major contributor to the movie’s classic status, but it isn’t alone in doing all the heavy lifting. Colbert and Gable are an iconic movie couple: funny, charismatic, and sympathetic. They’re half lovers, half mischievous partners in crime (metaphorically speaking). Capra’s characteristic populism pervades the movie’s depiction of Depression-era America, summoning up a “we’re all in this together” sentiment that is very comforting (and one you wish was more prevalent in real life). The black-and-white cinematography is luminous, emphasizing a romantic realism, as contradictory as that sounds.

You Can’t Run Away From It was not the first remake of It Happened One Night. It wasn’t even the first musical remake! Columbia cranked out a 1945 musical remake of the Capra classic under the title Eve Knew Her Apples. I have never seen that one so I cannot comment on it, though a quick look at a plot summary shows the details of the story were changed. The leading lady is no longer an heiress on the run from her meddling father, but an overworked radio star running from her manager. You Can’t Run is much closer to its source, changing very little save for updating the time period, relocating the road trip from the east coast to the west, and making Ellie the daughter of a Texas-born tycoon. Directed by Dick Powell (yes, THAT Dick Powell!) and using Robert Riskin’s original script mostly intact, what could go wrong?

You Can’t Run is part of a peculiar postwar Hollywood trend of remaking earlier, black-and-white romantic comedies as glossy, color musicals. The Philadelphia Story becomes High Society. The Women becomes The Opposite Sex. Ball of Fire becomes A Song is Born. While some of these remakes have gone on to have dedicated fanbases of their own, today’s subject is not among them, despite the star wattage before and behind the camera.

It isn’t hard to figure out why.

I don’t feel compelled to give you another plot summary because this is largely a beat for beat retelling of Capra’s original. The setting is moved to the 1950s and there we have our first big diversion from what makes It Happened One Night so special. It Happened One Night is a quintessential Depression era film. Ellie’s ridiculous wealth and her out of touch relationship with reality as it is lived by the millions of Americans impacted by the Depression contributes a great deal to the film’s poignancy. The working-class Peter Warne becomes her guide into the messy world of trailer parks, night buses, and the dusty countryside. Ellie goes from a spoiled heiress throwing an expensive steak onto the floor with nary a thought to a vagabond having to make do with raw carrots.

This “rich person gets a wake up call” quality is absent from the remake. In prosperous postwar America, Ellie having to rough it on the road doesn’t hit the same way. You don’t have the scene where a hungry mother faints on the bus as her child weeps in panic as in the 1934 movie, for instance. There is a distinct lack of the class bitterness that gives the Capra movie its bite. The sense that these characters are roughing it is also subdued. The scene with Ellie trying to cut the line for the shower is gone, as are other charming scenes, like the one where Peter teaches her how to properly dunk a donut.

Ellie is the character who generally suffers the most in this version. Claudette Colbert brought a compelling blend of aristocratic aloofness and thawing warmth to the character. She could be a spoiled brat, but she was ultimately much smarter and sweeter than she initially appeared. The adventure brought out the best in her and allowed her to grow as a person.

Allyson is just plain miscast as Ellie. For one thing, she’s not convincing as a young ingenue and as a result, when she makes poor decisions, it doesn’t come off like a sheltered young thing making mistakes. It just comes off as a mature woman being foolish. When her Ellie starts to loosen up, she doesn’t become vulnerable so much as clownishly shrill. I hate to crap on Allyson because I find her charming when she’s in the right part. Her Jo in the 1949 Little Women is a delight—and even there she was technically much too old for the role—but here, she just isn’t at her best.

Jack Lemmon acquits himself somewhat better as the down to earth Peter Warne, but even he suffers when compared to Gable. A great deal of Lemmon’s issues come from what the script cuts. Because while it is true that this film is largely just a rehash of Riskin’s script, some of Peter’s best moments are left out. I already mentioned his donut dunking lesson being axed, but the remake also cuts his imitating a gangster to scare off a potential pursuer or his extended demonstration of how to thumb a ride before Ellie flashes her leg.

When people talk about Clark Gable in the original It Happened One Night, much is made of his inherent sex appeal, but what most distinguishes his Peter Warne for me is his trickster nature. He is constantly improvising and bluffing his way through life. Anytime I see Gable in that film, I think of the part in Mel Brooks’ History of the World Part 1 when Bea Arthur calls Brooks “a bullshit artist,” because that’s what Peter is—an exquisite artiste in BS-ery. I’m sure Lemmon would have done well with this element of the Peter character, but a lot of it is cut. As a result, his Peter is rather bland in comparison to Gable.

Between an irritating June Allyson and a tepid Jack Lemmon, there is no chemistry to speak of. Capra’s film sizzled with the tension between Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable. It was apparent in every scene, especially when “the walls of Jericho” divided their pajama clad bodies to different ends of a cabin. These same scenes feel so prim and sexless in the remake, partly because there is no spark between the leads and partly because the direction and staging are so impersonal, as though director Powell was at a loss at how to compose an interesting shot in widescreen.

Oh, and then there’s the music. Almost forgot I was reviewing a musical, didn’t you? So was I because there are only a handful of songs and they are all utterly forgettable, both melodically and lyrically. I cannot remember the melody from any of them.

Let’s go back to the walls of Jericho scene I was just discussing. A musical number called “Temporarily” occurs during this scene, illustrating how annoyed Peter is that he has to share space with this spoiled, snotty heiress and how aghast Ellie is that she has to pretend to be the wife of this boorish newspaper man she thinks may just take advantage of her at night. Her only comfort is that the charade is temporary. Oh, and apparently they’re kind of physically attracted to each other too, I guess.

Powell’s blocking of the scene has the actors circling the “walls” as they each undress and then having to constantly readjust their placement as they go about their nighttime routines. There is the occasional saucy bit of business, like Ellie throwing her stockings over the wall and the nylons hitting Peter’s head, but the two actors don’t seem all that flustered by each other. The palpable tension between Colbert and Gable is gone, replaced by a mechanical sense of just going through the motions of budding tension.

“Nitrate Glow, you’re being unfair! You need to judge the remake on its own terms!” I hear a hypothetical voice shout.

The issue is even if I could wipe the original from my mind, You Can’t Run Away From It is still a forgettable experience. It’s a mediocre musical and romantic comedy that would be even more of a footnote than it is if it weren’t connected to a classic. Nothing about You Can’t Run Away From It is an improvement on It Happened One Night. It just feels mechanical and perfunctory, the kind of remake that gives remakes a bad name. I wouldn’t call it the worst movie I have ever seen as it’s competent enough, but it is a pointless exercise. I can only recommend it as a curiosity for classic film fans.

Sources:

Edelstein, D. (2005, July 15). The Odd World of Gus Van Sant. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/15/arts/the-odd-world-of-gus-van-sant.html

Movie of the month: The Fatal Glass of Beer (dir. Clyde Bruckman, 1933)

January 1, 2026 / nitrateglow / Leave a comment

Has something ever made you laugh so hard you doubled over as your lungs screamed in agonizing mirth? Only a handful of films have ever done that to me, chief among them The Fatal Glass of Beer.

What is The Fatal Glass of Beer? It is a WC Fields short film lampooning all sorts of melodramatic tropes from the past century’s worth of popular culture. Set in the wintry north, it involves WC Fields recounting the tragedy of his wayward son Chester, who left for the city and subsequently became an alcoholic criminal jailed for theft. The prodigal returns to his parents weeping contrite tears. At first sympathetic to the boy, Fields asks if he still has the money he stole and when he says no–and that he plans on living off his parents for the rest of his life– Fields approaches the situation with something less than parental charity.

The Yukon setting was a popular choice for stage and film in the 1910s and 1920s, from romantic adventures like Tiger Rose to comedies like The Gold Rush to sensational dramas like The Trail of ’98. The anti-drink messaging and Christian moralizing was common in temperance melodramas of the Victorian era like The Drunkard. However, when you pair such sentimental, ripe material with the misanthropic world of WC Fields, the result is comedy gold.

Comedy is hard to analyze without sounding like a pretentious killjoy. All I can say is that The Fatal Glass of Beer is hilarious to me because it portrays its melodramatic parody in such a nonchalant way. The sets feel half-assed as though the merest nudge from any of the cheaply costumed performers onscreen would send them toppling over. Fields’ repeated cry that, “T’ain’t a fit night out FOR MAN OR BEAST!” is constantly greeted with a handful of fake snow to the face. Obvious phony stock footage makes repeated appearances. There is a meta quality to the whole short that makes it seem very modern.

Can’t really say much more than that. Gotta go milk the elk.

Reflections and my favorite posts of 2025

December 23, 2025 / nitrateglow / 1 Comment

Twenty-twenty-five has been an INSANE year. Every time I think my life will settle down, it throws me a curveball. In 2023, it was my grandfather dying. In 2024, it was a new job. In 2025, it was falling in love– so it’s been a good kind of insane at least!

It’s often tough fitting blogging into my schedule, but I wouldn’t give it up for the world. I love old films. I love researching them. I love sharing my thoughts with the online classic film community. I appreciate reading everyone else’s discoveries and insights throughout the year.

Here is my year-end review. What new discoveries thrilled me? What posts am I proudest of? What are my blogging plans for the year to come?

Top five favorite classic film discoveries

Selected films of Roberto Rossellini

I cheated for this first slot by making it multiple films, but I cannot help it. I never expected to be bowled over by Rossellini. I am not especially enamored of Italian Neorealism and so expected any pleasure I’d gain from his work would be academic. I saw Journey to Italy a year or so ago, and it took some ruminating for its brilliance to dawn upon me. Rossellini’s work does not indulge in stylish razzle dazzle. There is an unvarnished simplicity to these films that can be deceptive because beneath the surface, there is so much going on.

While Rome Open City is the most famous of the Rossellini films I saw for the first time this year, it was not my favorite of the lot. Rome Open City features beautiful performances from Anna Magnani and Aldo Fabrizi as an unmarried mother and Catholic priest caught up in the anti-Nazi resistance, but I was more taken by Germany Year Zero. That film mixes melodrama and realism in a fascinating way as it explores lingering traces of Nazi ideology in the ruins of postwar Germany and from the perspective of a child. I won’t spoil the ending of that film, but it devastated me for hours afterward. And then there is the television series The Age of the Medici, which slavishly recreates a Europe emerging from the middle ages into the more secular, more commercial early modern era.

My two top favorite Rossellini discoveries were The Flowers of St. Francis and The Taking of Power by Louis XIV. Both are biopics in a sense, though not of the cradle to grave variety. Each focuses on a specific chapter in the lives of their subjects. Flowers is more episodic, retelling tales of Francis of Assisi and his followers as they strive to embody the Christian virtues of poverty, humility, and grace. I am rather disillusioned when it comes to religion, but this film is a great example of how faith can ennoble the human spirit. My favorite scene relates the story of St. Francis and a leper he encounters in the countryside. Overcoming his revulsion, Francis embraces the stranger in a showcase of solidarity with “the least of these”– those shunned by society but beloved by God. It’s a beautiful, touching movie that makes the viewer want to live life in the same joyful, merciful way as Francis.

The Taking of Power by Louis XIV takes place in the realm of seventeenth-century politics, covering how a young Louis XIV became “the Sun King,” history’s most famous absolute monarch. In a court that expects Louis to be little more than a puppet, the young monarch instead manipulates the vanity and ambitions of his nobles, turning himself and his newly built palace of Versailles into the center of France’s political universe. It is a Pyrrhic victory: while Louis gains absolute power, he also isolates himself from other human beings. In public, he must always play the role of the all-powerful, invulnerable king. When the massive wig and fancy fashions come off, who is he really? There is no rest from palace intrigue and this is the awful price of power. Whereas Francis found freedom in poverty, Louis has built himself a gilded prison.

All of these films fascinated me and I cannot wait to discover more of Rossellini’s filmography. I’m excited to revisit Journey to Italy as well.

Ikiru (dir. Akira Kurosawa, 1951)

I knew Ikiru was going to make me cry. That was no surprise at all. The film is about a middle-aged man forced to reflect on his wasted life after he’s diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. Many stories have mined such material for obvious pathos and easy sentimentality. However, Akira Kurosawa was no ordinary filmmaker and he uses this tale to shake the audience awake from the autopilot of their lives.

It is rare for a movie to genuinely challenge you the way Ikiru does. I did not merely want to hug my loved ones or make a one-time donation to a food bank because of Ikiru. This film made me want to re-examine every little interaction I have with others, from strangers to coworkers to those closest to me. And what really sells the film’s message is its unconventional last act, where Kurosawa shows how without resolve the immediate desire to do good can fizzle out into complacency once more.

I wrote a massive review of this film earlier this year, so I’ll direct you there if you want more analysis.

Fantomas (dir. Louis Feuillade, 1913-1914)

As a silent film fanatic, I am ashamed to confess it took me so long to finally get to Fantomas. This isn’t my first foray into Feuillade: I tried watching Judex a long time ago and while it is not bad, I could not muster up enough enthusiasm to get beyond three episodes. (Admittedly, I have a bad track record of finishing series of any kind, be they movie serials or TV shows. I just prefer feature films, sorry!) However, Fantomas is a thrilling pulp adventure. It follows the cat and mouse game between master criminal Fantomas and the dedicated Inspector Juve.

What makes Fantomas so special is the way it dips into surrealism. At times, its imagery feels like it comes out of a nightmare, such as a scene where blood and jewels rain down from a church bell. Fantomas himself is a chilling villain. I imagined he’d be a trickster figure or an Arsene Lupin type, but he often comes off like all the evil in the world incarnated into one man. His elusive nature makes him a vivid symbol of the ever presence of evil. That quality makes the film’s conclusion all the more disquieting. It does not wrap matters up in a neat little bow.

The Best Years of Our Lives (dir. William Wyler, 1946)

William Wyler’s postwar drama had been on my watchlist for over a decade, but its length always inspired me to put off a viewing. I finally made the time to watch it and was deeply touched. The film follows a group of soldiers as they try to re assimilate to civilian life. However, they not only need to deal with the physical and psychological trauma that lingers after combat, but the subtle ways America is changing in the postwar world (a significant detail involves a small mom and pop pharmacy being swallowed up by a larger conglomerate). There is no syrup or schmaltz in the writing or direction, and The Best Years of Our Lives comes out all the stronger for it.

The cast is packed with memorable performances, but Harold Russell is the standout. While working as an Army instructor during WWII, Russell lost his hands in a demolition training exercise. Wyler became aware of Russell after seeing him feature in a documentary film titled Diary of a Sergeant. Russell was not a professional actor but his acting possesses a naturalness and honesty any trained thespian would envy. He was discouraged from pursuing a movie career because he would be pigeonholed into disabled veteran roles. The ableism of the movie industry deprived the world of a fine actor, though Russell did make a few film and television appearances later in life. However, his character will always be the one that I remember from The Best Years of Our Lives and considering how all the characters are so touching and memorable, that is saying a lot.

The Man Between (dir. Carol Reed, 1953)

Every cinephile has their share of unpopular opinions. One of my most egregious is that I have little enthusiasm for The Third Man, a film others rhapsodize about constantly. I have seen it three times over the years and it’s– fine. Like there’s nothing wrong with it: the cinematography is gorgeous, the atmosphere is moody, the postwar Vienna setting is compelling, and Orson Welles is iconic. I just don’t adore it like everyone else.

But you know what Carol Reed film my crazy self DOES adore? The Man Between, a noirish melodrama critics see as the underwhelming end of Reed’s postwar trilogy (which also includes Odd Man Out). Claire Bloom is an innocent British woman caught up in Cold War intrigue and a tender love affair with a haunted, handsome smuggler played by James Mason. While it lacks the bite of The Third Man and the spiritual torment of Odd Man Out, it has a bittersweetness I find appealing. The winter setting lends a melancholy romanticism to the atmosphere, and Clarie Bloom and James Mason make a touching pair of doomed lovers.

I chose The Man Between as my movie of the month in May, so if you want a more in-depth review, I’ll direct you there.

Top five favorite posts of mine

Rouben Mamoulian’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

I have long wanted to do a deep dive into the Rouben Mamoulian Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, one of the most ambitious and technically brilliant movies of the early sound era. Due to its uncompromising presentation of sexual repression, class hierarchies, and domestic abuse, the film remains every bit as horrifying ninety-plus years later.

Brigadoon should have been a horror movie

Revisiting a movie you saw in childhood can sometimes be a magical experience. Other times, it’s damn horrific, as was the case when I rewatched Brigadoon for the first time in over two decades. The result was that I feel A24 could probably make a decent horror flick out of this musical.

Battling Butler audio commentary

I thoroughly enjoyed creating an audio commentary for Wait Until Dark back in 2022, but it took me three years to do a follow up. This commentary about Buster Keaton’s Battling Butler was the result. I couldn’t find as many behind the scenes anecdotes as I wanted, but I had a great time breaking down why I think Battling Butler is Keaton’s most underrated feature.

MGM Royalty and The Last of Mrs. Cheyney

Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, and Greer Garson represent different faces of MGM royalty between 1929 and 1951. All three actresses played the lead in different adaptations of the melodramatic stage hit The Last of Mrs. Cheyney, a tale of a shopgirl who robs the rich in the guise of a respectable society widow. Each version represents the cultural milieu in which it was created in interesting ways and each woman puts her own unique stamp on the role.

The Dumb Girl of Portici

Lois Weber’s 1916 epic is a fascinating and tragic exploration of class warfare. While Hypocrites is Weber’s most celebrated film, I actually love this one the most and urge anyone fascinated by early film to check it out.

Future blog post ideas

Julie Harris as cinema’s first Sally Bowles in I Am A Camera, alongside Laurence Harvey. Image source:IMDB

In the first few months of the new year, I plan on continuing my yearly tradition of examining the top hits of the American box office from one hundred years ago. So get ready for some swamp melodrama with Mary Pickford, desert romance with Rudolph Valentino, swashbuckling with Douglas Fairbanks, and tons of war-themed pictures riding on the success of The Big Parade.

I’ll also be participating in the Film. Release. Repeat. Blogathan hosted by Hamlette’s Soliloquy and The Midnite Drive-In. My entry will be about You Can’t Run Away From It, a musical remake of It Happened One Night starring June Allyson and Jack Lemon.

I’m hoping to record another commentary next year for The Heiress, which features my favorite Olivia de Havilland performance, but I can’t make promises. Both the research and recording take a lot of time, and between my personal life and my job, time is not always a commodity I’ve got in abundance. But we shall see.

As for other blog ideas, what I’m most enthused about right now is a post about I Am A Camera, a 1955 British film based on the same source material as the much better-remembered musical Cabaret. I love exploring more obscure films and revisiting more famous ones I have not seen in years, and this subject allows me to do both!

Happy holidays to those who celebrate and here’s to happy blogging in the year to come!

Movie of the month: Cash on Demand (dir. Quentin Lawrence, 1961)

December 1, 2025 / nitrateglow / 1 Comment

I don’t know when American culture suddenly decided we needed to start celebrating Christmas by October. Halloween not even over and stores are rolling out the red and green. The people around me often follow suit, playing the usual cinematic suspects on holiday rotation: A Christmas Story, The Polar Express, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Elf, The Santa Clause trilogy, and an eternal avalanche of Hallmark romcoms caked in sentiment and tinsel.

The result is that I’ve been thoroughly burned out on most mainstream Christmas films. The 24-hour marathon attached to A Christmas Story has not made me fonder of that movie, but developed in me an allergic reaction to what is otherwise a charming, funny piece of my childhood. Without realizing it at first, I’ve been compiling an alternative holiday viewing list over the years. Today’s example: Cash on Demand.

I first discovered Cash on Demand last year due to the novelty of it being a non-horror Hammer production. It’s a riff on A Christmas Carol: Peter Cushing plays Fordyce, an uptight, coldhearted bank manager who micromanages his employees to hell and back. His emotional world is encompassed in his wife and son (a photograph of the two on his desk manages to coax a spontaneous smile), as he has no friends in or out of work. As his employees prepare for Christmas, he keeps himself at a distance, as though holiday cheer will give him pneumonia.

Fordyce’s carefully organized tyranny is challenged by the appearance of one Gore-Hepburn (Andre Morrell), a smooth-talking bank robber masquerading as an insurance investigator. Gore-Hepburn isolates Fordyce in his office and informs him that he’s going to help rob his own bank, or else his wife and child will be tortured and killed. A phone call to his house convinces Fordyce this is so and he is forced to abandon the pride he takes in being the world’s most efficient manager. Worst of all, his employees are unaware of the crime being enacted and helping Gore-Hepburn deceive them becomes part of the deal to keep his family safe.

Two cuts of Cash on Demand exist: an 84-minute American release and a 67-minute British version. I tried watching the shorter cut out of curiosity, but the cuts work against the film’s strengths. Much of the first act is shorn and because of that the character work established there is missing. What makes Cash on Demand so special is not the clever mechanics of the robbery itself, but the characters.

It is a testament to both the writers and Peter Cushing’s acting ability that Fordyce comes off sympathetic at all. For the first twenty minutes, there is some schadenfreude in seeing him taken down a peg by the charming Gore-Hepburn, who uses the dislike Fordyce engendered in his employees against the hapless manager. But as the story progresses, we see hidden layers to both Fordyce and Gore-Hepburn. The bank robber is a total sadist, relishing any bit of psychological or even physical abuse he can heap on Fordyce. He comes off less like a man than a scourge of God.

As for Fordyce, much like the version of Scrooge played by Alastair Sim, his coldness is not born of malice, but of desperate loneliness. As he admits to his assistant manager late in the film, his family is “all I’ve got.” Losing them means losing all connection to his humanity. So, it’s not just his job or loved ones’ lives at stake. It’s Fordyce’s entire emotional life hanging in the balance. And there is no going back to the man he used to be. Like Scrooge, Fordyce experiences a spiritual regeneration as the result of his ordeal, making Cash on Demand not just a nail-biting thriller, but a nuanced character piece and perfect bit of optimism for the Christmas season.

Walking on (more) sunshine

November 21, 2025 / nitrateglow / 5 Comments

Hello readers! It’s been a hectic November to say the least. I worked hard on my entry for the CMBA Early Shadows and Pre-Code Horror blogathon and have been prepping for a vacation I’m going to take at the end of this week. My significant other and I are going to be in the mountains, so there’s quite a bit to do before we leave.

In the meantime, I’ve been nominated for a Sunshine Blogger Award by the lovely Virginie of The Wonderful World of Cinema. Thanks Virginie!

Here are the rules for the uninitiated (I’m just copying Virginie’s description over with a few tweaks since she was answering two sets of Sunshine questions at once):

Include the Sunshine Blogger Awards somewhere on your blog and/or in the article.
Thank the person who nominated you.
Share the link to this person’s blog.
Answer the 11 questions asked by the blogger who nominated you.
Nominate 11 bloggers yourself.
Ask 11 questions to these bloggers.
Notify the bloggers by commenting on their blogs.

1- You can only watch Cary Grant films or James Stewart films for the rest of your life. Which actor do you choose? Of course, The Philadelphia Story (George Cukor, 1940) applies in both cases!

Hmm, a hard decision. As much as I would mourn losing Charade, Notorious, and Arsenic and Old Lace, I gotta go with Jimmy. Vertigo, Rear Window, and It’s A Wonderful Life are three of my all-time favorites, and then there are so many others: Winchester ’73, The Mortal Storm, Harvey, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Rope, Anatomy of a Murder, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance are all fantastic. Not to slight Grant, but I just connect more with Stewart’s work and screen persona.

2- You have to learn a choreography from a film for a talent show. Which choreography do you choose to learn?

The “Moses Supposes” number from Singin’ in the Rain. (I always felt so bad for the poor elocution teacher though!)

3- Do you consider yourself to be some film’s number one fan? If yes, which film and why?

Nobody on the planet loves Wait Until Dark more than me. No one who ever breathed loves or loved Wait Until Dark more than me. I am obsessed with that movie and have probably watched it close to 100 times. I probably have most of the dialogue committed to memory. I know reams of trivia about the production. I am nothing short of obsessed.

4- You are put in solitary confinement with the main character of the last film you watched. Who is it and how does it go?

John Barrymore’s Don Juan. That sounds really exhausting since he spends most of that movie bouncing off the walls like a gremlin on coke. Might also need a spray bottle since his whole thing is being horny as hell too.

5- You have the power to go back in time and release in colour a film that is currently in black and white. (For example, you decide that The Shop Around the Corner should be in colour). Which film do you choose?

I generally prefer my films in black and white. If anything, there are some color films that would have benefited from monochrome. However, I’ll pick one black and white film that was originally intended for color but ultimately wasn’t shot that way due to budget problems– Marie Antoinette. Those opulent costumes are begging to be seen in color.

6- Which film do you think actually deserves a sequel?

It would have been nice to have a sequel to The Bride of Frankenstein that actually had the Bride as the central character. She gets so little screen time! And Elsa Lanchester does so much with that character with only a few minutes to make an impression.

7- How do you spend your ideal movie night?

I have two conditions: lights out as much as possible and two-three hours of no interruptions. Oh, and my phone needs to be as far from me as possible. I like being immersed. So three conditions.

8- A film character is invited as a guest writer on your blog. Who is this character, and what would he or she be writing about? Yes, I was a bit inspired by one of Sally’s questions for that one!

Whatever entity does the voiceover narration in Blast of Silence. So if you haven’t seen that film, it has a second-person perspective (“You were born with the hate and anger built in…”) voiceover narration read by Lionel Stander, who sounds like a chain-smoking mobster. I always thought it was interesting that this character clearly isn’t the film’s protagonist– is it a projection of his missing father? The voice of God? I don’t know, all I know is his cynical, doom-laden lines are gold. I feel like any blog post on any subject filtered through this voice would be amusing.

9- Film noir debate time. Who had the best hair: Rita Hayworth or Veronica Lake?

Rita. I guess hair-quality wise they’re both the same, but no one knew how to toss their hair like Rita.

10- You are travelling abroad on your birthday, but get the chance to celebrate with three movie directors of your choosing. Who do you choose, and what gifts do you think you would receive from them?

To be honest, I would pick Lois Weber, Buster Keaton, and Alice Guy Blache, and the only gifts I want would be to hear about their experiences as filmmakers in the silent era, especially Weber and Blache. Also I’d want Buster to play the ukulele.

11- Finally, is there a certain meal or food from a film you would like to taste?

This is a cliched answer, but the food in so many Ghibli films looks AMAZING. I really want all the bread in Kiki’s Delivery Service.

Okay, here are my questions!

1 – Do you like any of the new wave movements of the ’50s and ’60s? (ex. French New Wave, Japanese New Wave, etc.)

2 – Do you like audio commentaries? If so, name some of your favorites.

3 – Favorite Old Hollywood-related biography?

4 – Do you watch foreign films? If so, name some of your favorites.

5 – The worst Old Hollywood related book you’ve ever read.

6 – Does faithfulness to source material matter to you with adaptations?

7 – What is the movie you’ve rewatched the most?

8 – Are there any film scholars or film critics you’re fond of reading?

9 – Any film podcasts or YouTube channels you would recommend?

10 – What filmmaker/actor/other film creative (OR genre/film movement) have you recently discovered and want to delve more into?

11 – Do you have any interests that tie into your interest in classic film? (For me, it’s an interest in historical popular culture and history in general.)

I nominate the following blogs:

Classic Film and TV Corner

The Classic Movie Muse

Cinematic Coffee

Dominique Revue

Critica Retro

I’m eager to read your responses. Have fun and happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate it!

The Early Shadows and Pre-Code Horror Blogathon: The psychological horrors of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (dir. Rouben Mamoulian, 1931)

November 12, 2025 / nitrateglow / 19 Comments

“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” – The Gospel of Thomas

Rouben Mamoulian’s 1931 adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is usually celebrated as the ultimate in pre-code horror. The Universal monster classics might be more iconic, but Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is by far more frank in its depictions of sexuality and violence than any of them. For film historians, the movie’s technical achievements are remarkable for its era. While many filmmakers in the early talkie period were cowed by the demands of sound and kept their camerawork conservative, Mamoulian managed to retain the visual fluidity of the late silent era.

As a teenager falling in love with Old Hollywood for the first time, I was enamored with Mamoulian’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Time has not eroded my passion but intensified it. This film is not just a shining example of the permissive pre-code era, a gem of classic horror, or a technical pinnacle of the early talkie period. It is among the most psychologically sophisticated movies to ever come out of Hollywood in its century-plus history. Further acquaintance makes its genius more apparent.

NOTE: This is basically a commentary on the entire film, so there will be spoilers.

Dr. Jekyll (Frederic March) is a young, brilliant scientist living in late Victorian London. This version begins from Jekyll’s perspective—literally. The first scene is shot from first-person point of view, as though the audience were inhabiting Jekyll’s body. In a series of impressive shots, we see Jekyll play the organ, primp himself in the mirror, and go for a carriage ride to the lecture hall. These shots seem like mere technical bravura, but they establish something important: that the audience does not view Jekyll as some tragic freak separate from themselves, but as a mirror of something universal about human nature. Basically, we shouldn’t feel too morally superior to him as the story unfolds.

Jekyll theorizes that people have two sides to their personality: one virtuous and noble, and the other base and animalistic. His stodgy peers view this idea as crackpot nonsense, but it enthralls his students, who throng the lecture halls. For his part, Jekyll is adamant about his ideas and resolves to find chemical means to separate the “good” and “bad” sides of human nature.

Beyond his unorthodox theories, Jekyll is something of a rebel in upper class Victorian society, shirking punctuality and polite manners at every turn. He also dedicates time to operating on impoverished patients in the charity ward free of charge, a seeming generosity that baffles others but enchants his fiancée, Muriel (Rose Hobart).

Muriel and science are the two great obsessions of Jekyll’s life. Jekyll and Muriel are passionately in love, but Muriel’s father Brigadier General Carew (Halliwell Hobbes) insists on delaying the nuptials for almost a year. The old gentleman thinks Jekyll is TOO eager to get to the wedding night and that is just “indecent.” He keeps postponing the wedding date and, despite Jekyll’s suggestion that they just elope, the ever-dutiful Muriel will not go against her father’s wishes.

These early scenes portray Jekyll as an appealing character, certainly more appealing than the rather nondescript middle-aged Victorian gentleman of Stevenson’s text. He’s charismatic, intelligent, romantic, and witty. He cares for the socially disadvantaged. He shuns arbitrary social rules. He’s saddled with an irritating father-in-law-to-be anyone would find punchable. What’s not to like?

However, it soon becomes clear that Jekyll can also be selfish. For all his declarations of love for Muriel, he’s not a model of fidelity. Strolling through the streets with his friend Lanyon one night, Jekyll intercedes in a fight between a sex worker and a customer. The former is a woman named Ivy (Miriam Hopkins), who sees in the handsome Jekyll a lucrative payday and potentially fun evening at work. The two characters flirt mercilessly while she strips down to nothing under the pretense of Jekyll examining her injuries.

Jekyll has no compunctions about kissing Ivy when she pulls him to her. Had he not been interrupted, there is little doubt that Jekyll would have consummated his infidelity. His excuse? “A man dying of thirst needs water.” No image better illustrates Jekyll’s headspace than that of Ivy’s bare leg swinging off the edge of the bed as she calls for him to return soon. This visual ends the scene of Jekyll’s near-conquest, then slowly dissolves into Jekyll and Lanyon walking home. However, the dissolve lasts a long time, with Ivy’s leg superimposed over the next scene as it plays. So, Jekyll’s rebelliousness isn’t as subversive as it seems. He likes thumbing his nose at high class squares while still enjoying the privileges inherent to living as an upper-class man in that society, at least to a point.

Let’s talk about Muriel and Ivy for a moment. Though in many ways they embody the reductive Madonna-Whore dichotomy, they also share key similarities. Both women embrace their sexual desires to differing extents. Ivy undresses Jekyll with her eyes from the moment they meet, while Muriel, though a dutiful Victorian daughter, has no compunctions sneaking out to the garden with Jekyll for some late-night smooching. The main difference between them is that Muriel postpones consummating her physical relationship with Jekyll out of reverence for how things are done in proper society, and Ivy makes no bones about enjoying sex.

Surprisingly, the film never condemns Ivy for her profession or her sensuality, even as it shows how it makes her vulnerable in a patriarchal world. If audience reactions over 90 years have shown anything, she is the film’s most sympathetic and loved figure. She is also the one character who does not need to wrestle with herself, as opposed to Jekyll or even Muriel. She isn’t repressed and she isn’t hiding anything.

Interestingly, Muriel undergoes an arc throughout the film because she does wrestle with how her erotic longings are at odds with the obedient, desexualized woman society demands she embody. In the early scenes, she is often in white, representing innocence, the perfect Victorian girl-woman…

By the time she returns from her long sojourn to the continent, she wears white and black, representing her growth as she starts bucking her father’s demands a little and even convinces him to let her marry Jekyll sooner than first planned…

By the end, she wears dark colors, representing a sober maturity. Though Jekyll screwed up again by missing their engagement party (too busy committing murder), Muriel is even more staunch in fighting for Jekyll and hearing him out, whatever her father thinks…

So arguably, Muriel and Ivy are healthier people psychologically than Jekyll. Ivy accepts the parts of her that society says a “good woman” shouldn’t, and Muriel overcomes her excessive attachment to her father and his uncompromising demand for obedience.

For all his outer rebellion, Jekyll still partially buys into society’s views of sex as dirty. He is disturbed by the gulf between his baser desires and high-flown ideals. His experiments come from wanting to be “clean.” When he drinks his serum for the first time and takes on the visage of Hyde, the first-person point of view returns, yet again emphasizing audience identification with Jekyll and his soon-to-appear alter ego. The old-school special effects used to portray the transformation are more engrossing than any CG metamorphosis could be. It appears so seamless and tactile.

Critics of this film find Hyde’s simian make-up too over-the-top and literal. While on the nose, the make-up illustrates a psychological point: that beneath the fine clothes and gentlemanly title, Jekyll’s baser urges, be they ego-based or sensual, are always at the forefront of his mind, whether he looks like King Kong’s cokehead younger brother or not. The make-up also evolves over the course of the story. Hyde initially appears unkempt and comical, reflecting the amiable amorality of his early scenes…

… but later on, he combs his hair back to assume a respectable wickedness as he uses his upper-class privileges to dominate Ivy…

…And then by the end, his face begins to deteriorate, as though the unchecked evil were rotting him from within in the manner of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Unlike other versions of Jekyll and Hyde where Jekyll is just a precious little bean turned into a rampaging beast against his intentions, here Jekyll knowingly takes the plunge into Hyde territory. When he first transforms into Hyde early in the film, he is initially startled, even horrified. Soon after, he begs Muriel to marry him right away so he can indulge his sexual urges in sanctified marital bliss. When she asks him to be patient, Jekyll claims he can wait.

Guess what? He can’t wait.

Restless in his lust and goaded on by his butler to go partying (“London offers many amusements for a gentleman like you, sir!”), Jekyll takes the potion again, well aware of what it will do. It will allow him to behave without inhibitions and enjoy himself without risk to his reputation or impending marriage.

Hyde only seems distinct from Jekyll on the surface. He’s cruder, ruder, and louder to be sure. He makes bawdy jokes (like thrusting his cane beneath an old woman’s skirts), ogles all the scantily clad women at the pub, and shouts at a waiter for fishing for a tip. But is Hyde really so different from Jekyll? Jekyll is sensual and impatient with Victorian sensibilties. He is excitable and energetic. As Hyde, all he’s doing is cranking that up to eleven. And keep in mind, these traits are not all bad in and of themselves, but unanchored from any sense of moral compass, they quickly transform into negatives.

The audience might initially delight in Jekyll/Hyde’s rule-breaking, but once he forces Ivy into sexual slavery and subjects her to domestic abuse, sympathy evaporates. Hyde is not only indulging his lust but arguably lashing out at Ivy from buried psychosexual resentment. She ignores the moral code Jekyll chafes against but is too cowardly to openly defy. A Letterboxd review from user Movies With Nat puts it well:

“Ivy becomes everything [Jekyll] wants and everything he’s terrified of — desire, freedom, and guilt all tangled together. When Hyde is unleashed, he’s “free at last.” His cruelty isn’t born from evil, but from the warped morality of a society where sexuality is taboo. His violence toward Ivy carries a buried resentment — because she can live freely in ways Jekyll cannot.”

The claustrophobic mise en scene of Ivy and Hyde’s shared apartment is remarkable. Surrounded by erotic art and kitschy Victorian bric-a-brac, Ivy is reduced down to her body and imprisoned in a ghastly parody of domesticity. It’s also a basement apartment one must descend a staircase to enter, which evokes the idea of entering a grave. Ultimately, that is what this apartment will be to Ivy.

One prop in the apartment always stands out to me: a statue of Cupid and Psyche focused upon as Hyde strangles Ivy to death. For those not brushed up on their Greek mythology, the story of Cupid and Psyche is often seen as a precursor to the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale, where a hideous beast turns out to be a handsome prince. The beautiful Psyche lives in an enchanted mansion with Cupid, who keeps his divine nature and gorgeous face hidden from her. Here, the situation is flipped—Ivy is living with a monster who “Hydes” his real identity to save his reputation. Even the positioning of Ivy and Hyde’s bodies during the murder suggests the positions of the figures of the statue.

Though the film is never explicit as to how much Jekyll knows of what he does when he’s in the Hyde persona, I think he knows everything. The evidence is in the details. Jekyll fears for his immortal soul, which isn’t something a man like Jekyll would do if he felt everything he did as Hyde was beyond his control. He sends Ivy money to try to atone for torturing her. Even Hyde’s references to Jekyll as the man he hates most suggest Jekyll/Hyde’s self-loathing as the transformations between the alter egos become involuntary.

The novel offers a scientific explanation for the involuntary transformations. An impure compound in one of the ingredients of the serum’s original batch kept the transformations stable. Later brews did not have this compound and so the transformations became involuntary. Mamoulian’s film offers no rational explanation, planting this plot element more firmly in the realm of the spiritual rather than the scientific. Like Stevenson, the 1931 film implies humanity’s darker impulses are stronger than their nobler ideals if left unchecked. There is also a touch of the drug addict in Jekyll’s constant returning to his Hyde life. Moral impunity is better than any high.

With Ivy’s death, the film enters its most despairing territory. It’s the dark finale of this movie that fascinates me even more than its pre-code naughtiness or the fantastic special effects and make-up. From here on, angles and composition emphasize Jekyll’s spiritual lowness by diminishing him in the frame or posing other characters above him. (I cannot claim to have noticed this on my own. I only picked up on it after reading this excellent analysis of the movie from a blog titled And You Call Yourself a Scientist, which I heartily encourage other fans of this film to check out.)

Realizing he’s now added homicide to his arsenal of sins, Jekyll tries redeeming himself again. Throwing money at his last victim couldn’t do the trick, so he decides upon self-sacrifice instead. He will give up Muriel. Perhaps that will save his soul. He even shouts theatrically, “THIS! IS! MY! PENANCE!” after declaring their break-up. But this gesture proves as hollow as giving Ivy cash because Jekyll turns into Hyde again. Rather than stay away from Muriel, he attempts to rape her.

This is one of the most shocking moments in the movie. It suggests that even Jekyll’s love for Muriel could not overcome his inner demons. Jekyll can’t have her lawfully now, but he won’t be denied his desires, even if he has to resort to violence. He’s allowed his moral safeguards to be eroded for too long.

The general and the other men of the household thwart the assault, but Hyde responds by killing Carew. And not just quickly. He hammers the old man’s skull with a walking stick until it breaks. As the blogger behind the And You Call Yourself a Scientist website observes in their extended analysis of Mamoulian’s film: “…if anything can challenge the tormenting of Ivy for sheer horror, it is surely this moment, when we know that Jekyll’s impulse is speaking through Hyde.”

When Hyde is shot to death in his lab after a prolonged fight with the police, he reverts back to his Jekyll appearance. In profile, the deceased appears beatific, as though he has finally been expiated. But Mamoulian does not end there.

We cut to a long shot with the police and Jekyll’s butler crowded around the corpse. The camera moves behind the flames of the laboratory fireplace. From this perspective, the fire leaps and curls around Jekyll’s body, the implication plain. It is up to the viewer which image leaves the greater impression: the peaceful face of Jekyll’s corpse or the sinister dancing flames.

The sudden introduction of religious rhetoric in the film’s final third can strike one as reactionary. Like other “mad scientist” films from this era, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has been accused of being anti-science, the usual “never tamper in God’s domain” deal. This sentiment misses the point. The problem with the “mad scientist” is not that he is willing to experiment and question. It’s that he doesn’t think his projects through or take human shortcomings into account.

Jekyll assumes his dark side and socially-unsanctioned desires can be chemically removed. By trying to extricate himself from them through Hyde, all he does is make them dominate his entire person. A desire to shirk superficial Victorian manners curdles into aggression towards everyone and everything. A desire to satisfy sexual urges curdles into the dehumanization of his sexual partners. In the end, Jekyll degenerates into nothing more than a mass of appetites and rage.

I love the horror genre, but I confess few horror movies scare me in any lasting way. Being a properly desensitized millennial, blood and gore make me go “ew” at best. Most films described as “scariest of all time” like The Exorcist don’t keep me awake at night. I can count on two hands the amount of horror films that got under my skin and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is one of them, believe it or not.

It’s not any disturbing images or visceral jump scares that do it. Even in its relative frankness, it’s not the film’s depictions of domestic abuse or murder, though those scenes are upsetting. What gets me is how unsparing the story is regarding human nature. There are no comforting platitudes about good always winning out or one’s inner demons being something that can be easily overcome. There is no cheat code to moral purity, there is only the messy, complicated business of being human. I appreciate films that are optimistic and show how good and noble people can be, but you can’t truly appreciate those stories without media that shows otherwise.

This post was written for the CMBA Early Shadows and Pre-Code Horror blogathon. Please check out this link to experience more thrills and chills from my fellow CMBA members!

Sources:

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931). (May 11, 2018). and you call yourself a scientist?! https://andyoucallyourselfascientist.com/2018/05/11/dr-jekyll-and-mr-hyde-1931/

Movies With Nat. (October 23, 2025). ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ review. Letterboxd. https://letterboxd.com/movieswith_nat/film/dr-jekyll-and-mr-hyde-1931/

Stevenson, R.L. (2016). The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde And Other Stories. Barnes and Noble.

Movie of the month: Hallelujah, I’m a Bum! (dir. Lewis Milestone, 1933)

November 1, 2025November 1, 2025 / nitrateglow / Leave a comment

Pre-code weirdness doesn’t always come wrapped in negligees. Sometimes what marks a film as super pre-code is its sociopolitical audacity. Today’s example: the 1933 Al Jolson vehicle, Hallelujah, I’m a Bum.

It’s a musical centered on happy-go-lucky hobo Bumper (Jolson) who views his homelessness as the key to existential freedom. He travels the country with right-hand man Acorn (Edgar Connor) and rubs elbows with the mayor of New York City (Frank Morgan), who regularly offers him lucrative work as a token of their friendship. However, Bumper always turns the offers down as he likes his liberty too much. Bumper is also the de facto leader of the homeless residing in Central Park, much to the displeasure of local communist trash collector (Harry Langdon of all people), who views this attitude as antithetical to his hopes of a workers’ revolution.

Bumper’s world gets turned upside down when he rescues a suicidal woman (Madge Evans) from drowning. When she comes to, her memory is gone. Stricken with love at first sight and dubbing his amnesiac lady love “Angel,” Bumper decides to relinquish his no-work philosophy and take up the mayor’s offer of a cushy bank job in order to support Angel. Little does he know that Angel is actually the mayor’s estranged mistress and their romantic bliss is on borrowed time once her memory comes back.

Hallelujah, I’m a Bum plays like the love child of City Lights and a Rene Clair musical like Le Million. Film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum describes it as an “anarcho-leftist fantasy.” Only in that small window of the early 1930s– with the Depression at its lowest, harshest point– could one conceive of Hollywood putting out such a work. Interestingly, the mayor is portrayed as rather inept, but he too is essentially good-natured and willing to lend a helping hand if need be. Nevertheless, Hallelujah is as much a satire contrasting the haves and have-nots as Chaplin’s work, making it a quintessential piece of cinema from the Depression era.

Beyond the film’s social views, what struck me most was that I actually didn’t want to turn it off at any point despite the presence of Al Jolson. A personal note for context: I am not an Al Jolson fan. From my research, a great deal of his appeal was dependent on live performance, where he could react to the energy of crowds with miraculous sensitivity. On film and in dramatic scenes, Jolson comes off as grotesque and shrill. However, I quite like him in Hallelujah, I’m a Bum. His character is affable and has great chemistry with silent comic legend Harry Langdon in their scenes together.

Langdon was the other great surprise for me watching this movie because I am not a Langdon fan either. I appreciate his best movies more than I like them and his signature baby-man act is not to my taste. As the crabby trashman here though, he’s hilarious. His ideological fervor plays well with Jolson’s smiling contentment, and the movie’s best scenes involve them playing off one other’s polarized energies.

On the whole, Hallelujah is an underrated early film musical that should be ranked alongside the likes of The Gold Diggers of 1933, Love Me Tonight, and 42nd Street. There are no big showstoppers or Busby Berkley style extravaganzas, but the songs are catchy and the editing pulses with near Eisensteinian energy.

Sources:

Rosenbaum, J. (March 6, 2025). Hallelujah, I’m A Bum! Jonathan Rosenbaum. https://jonathanrosenbaum.net/2025/03/hallelujah-im-a-bum/

Eight horror films from the 1950s

October 17, 2025 / nitrateglow / 2 Comments

Mention “1950s horror” and you’ll conjure images of mutated bugs, stomping kaiju, and busty women swooning in the arms of menacing monsters. The sci-fi horror blend was potent throughout that decade but it does not wholly represent the variety of chillers produced in that era. Gothic horror– so prevalent in the ’30s and ’40s, but starting to grow stale by the postwar period– became infused with new life. And there were plenty of contemporary horrors as well, influencing filmmakers for years to come.

In the spirit of Halloween, I’ve drawn up a list of eight of my favorite fifties horror movies. Some are well-known classics, while others are more prominent in arthouse circles or worshiped as the height of schlock. All are enjoyable and well worth your time during spooky season.

The White Reindeer (dir. Erik Blomberg, 1952)

This gorgeous work of Finnish cinema was unknown to me until the Haunted Blowfish YouTube channel covered it for their 100 Years of Horror series a few years ago. The White Reindeer has similarities to Lewton’s Cat People, centering the story on a lonely young woman told from very young that she is marked by evil and witchcraft. When she marries a reindeer herder, she briefly finds happiness, but work takes him away from home for long stretches. Craving romantic passion, she seeks out a supernatural solution to her problems, but instead finds herself undergoing involuntary transformations into a homicidal white reindeer.

The White Reindeer feels like a fairy tale with its simple but haunting story and almost silent film style. The stark beauty of the snow-covered Finnish landscape mirrors the loneliness of the main character and makes for a unique horror movie location. Like the beguiling horror cinema of Val Lewton, you can read as much or as little into The White Reindeer as you please. Either way, it is a fantastic gem that should be better known to an international audience.

House of Wax (dir. Andre de Toth, 1953)

Hollywood has been sporadically trying to make 3D a thing for decades. I still remember after Avatar came out in 2009 how people said all future films would be made in 3D and resisting it was like trying to resist the talkies eighty years before. The 3D revolution didn’t work out any better in the 2010s than it did in the 1950s, when 3D mania produced a fair amount of schlock. However, some films rose above the gimmick.

House of Wax is technically a remake of The Mystery of the Wax Museum, only it moves the action back to the turn of the twentieth century. I prefer this version to the original: the characters are more strongly characterized, the story is more focused, and of course it has the great Vincent Price as the chief villain. While the story is gruesome, there is a knowing sense of humor to the movie that keeps it from being weighed down in morbidity. I have never seen the 3D version, but even flat (and with some of the 3D gimmicks made very plain, such as the infamous paddle-ball scene) this is a fun bit of gothic camp. I also want to give a shout-out to Phyllis Kirk as the heroine. She projects a keen intelligence that makes her stand out from your garden variety horror damsel and it makes her more sympathetic as a result.

Additional trivia: Carolyn Jones, who plays one of Price’s exhibit-bound victims, would later play Morticia Addams on the original Addams Family TV series.

Robot Monster (dir. Phil Tucker, 1953)

Robot Monster is the ideal Mystery Science Theater 3000 subject: charmingly inept in just the right ways. It depicts a post-apocalyptic world in which the last remnants of humanity are hunted down by the Ro-Men, gorilla-bodied aliens in space helmets with the ability to shoot death rays at their prey. The Ro-Man sent to earth is meant to be a fearsome monster. Instead he’s weirdly relatable: he can’t get his ’50s sci-fi version of Microsoft Teams to work properly, his supervisor micromanages him, and he’s unlucky in love when he tries to pick up earth women. What’s an invading extraterrestrial to do? This one is best watched in a group– probably with drinks too.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon (dir. Jack Arnold, 1954)

I love Universal Horror, but largely stick to the classics from the Laemelle era of the studio, when a pop gothic style ruled the day. A lot of the monster-mash entries from subsequent years do nothing for me. There are two exceptions to my post-Laemelle indifference though: The Wolf Man and The Creature from the Black Lagoon.

My grandmother saw The Creature from the Black Lagoon when it came out in 1954 (whether or not in 3D, she does not recall) and remembers it being genuinely scary at the time. While it’s not likely to give anyone nightmares now, it’s still a fine experience. The underwater scenes are gorgeous and the Gill-man deserves his iconic status as one of the great movie monsters. Like Karloff’s Frankenstein’s Monster, the Gill-man is both threatening and sympathetic– if anything, more sympathetic than threatening when you consider that these scientists are invading his territory. No wonder Guillermo Del Toro saw fit to give the Gill-man a happy ending in The Shape of Water!

Godzilla (dir. Ishiro Honda, 1954)

Godzilla became one of the great cash cow franchises of all time, its legacy drowning in merchandise and schlock (though a lot of it is highly entertaining schlock). It can be easy to forget how genuinely great the original Godzilla is. There is a starkness to the visuals and a sense of raw urgency that makes Honda’s Godzilla unnerving even after years of pop culture overexposure. As an allegory for the aftereffects of World War II and the anxieties of nuclear apocalypse, this remains powerful work.

Diabolique (dir. Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1955)

Michel is the cruel headmaster of a rundown boy’s school. Christina is Michel’s pious, long-suffering Catholic wife. Nicole is his cool, practical mistress. Beyond Michel’s place in their lives, these two women share one thing: the desire to get rid of him. Their murderous plans set off one of the greatest thrillers of all time, Diabolique. It is also not only among the best Hitchcockian films Hitchcock never made, it is also a Hitchcockian film Hitchcock did want to make. Hitchcock intended to nab the rights to the original novel, but they went to Henri-George Clouzot instead.

Diabolique evokes both the noir so prominent in the postwar period and Victorian gothic horror. With some tweaks, the story could easily be reimagined as a nineteenth-century period piece. Some of the most memorable scenes are shot in chilling chiaroscuro and the specter of the supernatural hangs over the action. I don’t want to spoil too much because the story features a million twists and turns that are thrilling to experience for the first time, so I recommend you go into Diabolique as blind as possible.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (dir. Don Siegel, 1956)

In recent years, the most celebrated version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers is the 1978 remake starring Donald Sutherland and Brooke Adams. I agree that is a great film in its own right and a shining example of what a remake should be with its fresh interpretation. But in my heart of hearts, my love will always go to the 1956 original. Set in idealistic postwar America in an archetypal small American town, the ’56 Invasion is shockingly subversive in its anxieties about the breakdown of society in the modern world.

It is common for the original film to be interpreted as a paranoid allegory of Communist infiltration, but I think that’s just one lens through which to see this story. The emotionless, mostly-passive pod people could just as easily represent any ideology that demands the individual submit to groupthink. That is what keeps this premise so fresh and forever malleable. But beyond that, the ’56 Invasion is just a great horror movie with dashes of sci-fi and even noir. The black and white visuals are gorgeous, and the atmosphere is gradually suffocating and anxiety-ridden. Even if there is the occasional flash of cheese, the film’s sense of dread is still potent.

The Curse of Frankenstein (dir. Terence Fisher, 1957)

The Hammer Frankenstein series is my comfort franchise. I enjoy the hell out of these movies, largely due to Peter Cushing’s icy yet charismatic performance as Dr. Frankenstein. What a snobby, egocentric, ruthless bastard he is, not allowing little things like human life get in the way of his experiments and pursuit of scientific truth. While Boris Karloff in the Universal films will always be my favorite cinematic monster, Cushing is my favorite cinematic Frankenstein.

It’s hard to pick a favorite film in this series, but the one I return to most is the first, The Curse of Frankenstein. It works well as a standalone title. I’m fond of the frame story where Frankenstein recounts his experiment gone wrong from a jail cell as he awaits execution. I also love the classic Hammer juxtaposition between stuffy Victoriana and lurid, blood-spattered Technicolor. While Universal sets the Frankenstein story in a world that blends interwar modernity and medieval horror, Hammer creates a wonderful dissonance between nineteenth-century manners and nasty violence and sensuality. I love that about most of Hammer’s horror output, but combined with Cushing’s unforgettable mad doctor, the Frankenstein films are my ultimate favorites.

What horror film from the 1950s are your favorites?

Movie of the month: The Spiral Staircase (dir. Robert Siodmak, 1946)

October 1, 2025 / nitrateglow / 4 Comments

The time is the turn of the twentieth century. The place is a small Vermont town. A serial killer is prowling the sleepy locale, targeting physically and mentally disabled women. This brings no small worry to a mute young woman named Helen (Dorothy McGuire).

Helen works as a live-in companion for the rich but bedridden matriarch Mrs. Warren (Ethel Barrymore). She is courted by the local physician Dr. Parry (Kent Smith), who is convinced Helen’s affliction—originally brought on by the trauma of watching her parents burn alive during a house fire—can be cured. She is surrounded by seemingly supportive people at her place of work: the jolly but alcoholic maid Mrs. Oates (Elsa Lanchester), Mrs. Warren’s reserved but polite professor stepson Albert (George Brent), Albert’s rakish and insensitive brother Steven (Gordon Oliver), and Albert’s beautiful but troubled secretary Blanche (Rhonda Fleming).

Dysfunction reigns at the Warren house. The two brothers hate each other. Blanche is having an affair with Steven, one that is passionate but going downhill fast. Mrs. Oates itches for some brandy while complaining about windows that mysteriously keep opening despite her shutting them. Mrs. Warren, when she isn’t berating her nurse, reminiscing about her prowess as a sharpshooter, and coming in and out of consciousness, demands Helen leave the house, fearing the girl is in grave danger.

A storm rages outside. Helen is effectively marooned, though with so many supportive people around her she seems safe. But the killer is closer than she thinks and no one can truly be trusted.

Taking a look at this synopsis for 1946’s The Spiral Staircase, one might not expect more than an old-fashioned chiller that must have creaked even in the immediate post-WWII era. It certainly is of the old school with the deep shadows of its black and white visuals, and the ample disembodied footsteps, howling winds, and thunder claps that make up its aural universe. And yet watching the movie, one finds not only a delicious thriller dripping in atmosphere and suspense, but a stylistically prescient and thematically potent little masterpiece pointing the way to later cinematic movements and trends.

You might have heard the 1974 slasher Black Christmas appointed as the first film to sport point-of-view shots from a killer’s perspective. Sorry Black Christmas, as much as I adore you, The Spiral Staircase beats you to the punch by almost three decades.** There are several creepy scenes with the killer lurking in closets and dark corners, watching his prey. The killer’s misogynist focus and use of black leather gloves also point forward to giallo shockers like Blood and Black Lace, only without the additional exploitative titillations that come with that genre.

To prefigure significant trends in later cinema gives The Spiral Staircase a level of importance, but what makes the film truly great is its storytelling craft. The best horror stories do not seek to merely repulse or shock. They stir in other emotions: humor, sorrow, longing. The Spiral Staircase is such a rich experience because its characters are strong and vivid across the board. Like one of my other favorite suspense films Wait Until Dark, The Spiral Staircase centers itself on a woman still dealing with the aftermath of a great trauma and doing her best to reclaim a sense of stability in its wake. The physical menace of the killer becomes an additional complication to this inner turmoil. The film’s conflict is not merely a matter of bodily survival, but psychological renewal, giving it a cathartic quality one does not always encounter in the horror and thriller genres.

This is a movie I could discuss all day. Dorothy McGuire’s brilliant, wordless performance. Ethel Barrymore’s stern yet just Mrs. Warren, staring down the potential killers around her with all the quiet fury of an avenging angel. The creepy sound design dominated by rain, thunder, and wind. The interplay between Victorian gothic terror and the burgeoning modernity of the twentieth century. The many themes that become more apparent on repeat viewings, such as the lingering influences of fascist ideology in the postwar world and the way Helen becomes a stand-in for the traumatized soldiers and civilians who survived WWII. (For anyone who’s seen the film and wants to dive deeper into its social postwar subtext, I cannot recommend Imogen Smith’s audio commentary track enough.) I just adore The Spiral Staircase and urge anyone who loves classic chillers to give it a chance this Halloween season if they’ve never seen it before.

**I hesitate to designate any film as “the first” of anything. Even The Spiral Staircase may not be the first film to have a killer POV shot. It’s possible some obscure or even lost movie from earlier may have it beat as well.

Remembering Robert Redford (1936-2025)

September 26, 2025 / nitrateglow / Leave a comment

When a cinematic giant like Robert Redford passes, it can stun you a bit. I was well aware he was pushing ninety years old but to hear of his passing was still a little shocking. Redford was one of the great stars of the so-called New Hollywood of the late 1960s and 1970s, and a creative force beyond that. He was a fervent activist and a supporter of independent filmmakers. I don’t think I can say anything about his career a thousand other posts have already covered, so let’s jump to the movies themselves. But what to pick?

I was tempted to write about my favorite Redford film, Three Days of the Condor, an excellent spy thriller that I also consider a Christmas movie due to its Yuletide setting. I could have talked about the perennial tearjerker The Way We Were, a movie I watched in high school at the recommendation of a beloved English teacher who called it her favorite movie. I could have talked about The Sting, a movie my family and I have enjoyed together several times. But instead, I decided to watch two films of his that have been lingering on my watchlist. I purposely picked movies from two periods of Redford’s career: The Candidate, made in the heyday of his ’70s stardom, and All is Lost, released only twelve years ago. Watching them back to back was an interesting experience.

The Candidate is a political satire about Bill McKay (Redford), a former governor’s son who hits the campaign trail for California senator not because he expects to win, but because campaigning is a lucrative business. What starts out as a quest for money becomes muddled due to McKay’s idealism and frankness, and his campaign team insists he tone down his messaging so he can lose gracefully by a narrower margin. McKay does so and his chances of actually winning increase significantly. But what happens if wins?

For those who prefer their satire in the exaggerated vein of Dr. Strangelove, The Candidate might seem too dry in its presentation. There are no gags or obvious yuks. But this is what makes the movie work so well. The filmmakers and Redford didn’t need to exaggerate a thing because the shallow, show businessy nature of modern American politics is ridiculous enough.

Redford’s McKay is not an open villain either, which makes the movie even more interesting. He has causes he cares about like pollution’s impact on the environment or the state of race relations. However, any effectiveness he might have is drowned out by the need to gather up as many voters as possible. He dilutes his idealism until he is nothing more than a performing parrot: beautiful to look at, but with all the depth of a leaking kiddie pool. McKay is the personification of what cultural critic Neil Postman described in his classic book, Amusing Ourselves to Death: in the age of television (and now social media, the boob tube’s even more fragmented child), appearance, slogans, and marketing matter more than anything else. Even when McKay achieves victory, the effect is pyrrhic because he only knows how to perform politics, not how to achieve real results.

Pivoting from the cynical and satirical, All is Lost is a tense, desperate survival thriller. Redford plays an elderly man sailing alone on the Indian Ocean who wakes to find his yacht is taking water. Over several days, he tries saving his vessel, but bad weather and other factors eventually put him on an inflatable life raft. How long can he survive?

Redford in The Candidate had to play a handsome, hollowed out shell who said a lot while doing nothing. Redford in All is Lost says virtually nothing for 98 minutes but is far from substanceless. With all of a handful of lines of dialogue, Redford relies on facial expression and body language like the silent film performers of old. He has no other actor to bounce off of and he carries the entire film on his own. A seasoned veteran thespian by this point, he more than manages the challenge. Even though we know basically nothing about the film’s protagonist (his name? his job? his family and friends? why there’s so much Knorr pasta on the yacht? any interests beyond sailing? why he’s alone in the middle of the ocean on this boat?), Redford remains a compelling everyman presence, all weathered tenacity and resourcefulness in the face of death.

All is Lost is a tense nerve-shredder, but it also functions as a spiritual work. It does not take much imagination to view it as a metaphor for awareness of mortality. No matter how fancy our electronics or how clever we might be, death comes for everyone. Nature is ultimately indifferent to whether we live or perish. That Redford was in his seventies when this film was shot emphasizes the film’s somber, thoughtful tone.

It’s always a blow when we lose one of the greats, but at least Redford left behind a strong body of work before and behind the camera, and he got to live a long, fruitful life. Would we all were so blessed.