Gregory Peck

Twelve O’Clock High (1949)

Twelve O’Clock High (1949)

(On TV, November 2019) By the late 1940s, war movies had changed—it wasn’t necessary to produce propaganda pieces any more, so the way was open for filmmakers to take a somewhat more balanced look at the war. At the same time, there were plenty of hardware lying around and veterans of the war to ensure authenticity, and an audience with vivid memories of the events portrayed on-screen. Accordingly, Twelve O’Clock High is not the kind of war-hurrah films that would have been produced during the war, nor the war-is-hell antipropaganda that would emerge from the 1970s.  It’s a sober-minded film that takes a look at American aviators stationed in England and running bombing missions against Germany—with a clear emphasis on the logistics and the people-management aspect of running airborne warfare. Much stock footage (from both sides of the war) is used to complement the original material, although that material famously includes a shot of a bomber deliberately crashing. (The stunt pilot survived as planned.)  Twelve O’Clock High is a film that spends a surprising amount of time on the ground before getting up in the air: The focus here is on the tension of the group effort as entire crews never come back, as the war drags on and on, and as bomber crews are often easy pickings for nimble fighter pilots if not escorted. There’s a unique blend of period attitude, production means, lived experiences and filmmaking skill (having Gregory Peck in a lead role helps) that helps makes the film feel credible—indeed, it got top marks from real American aviators regarding its authenticity upon release and was long featured in US military training. That realism, and slightly off-combat focus still makes Twelve O’Clock High worth a watch even if you think you’ve seen most of what WW2 aviation movies have to offer.

Gentleman’s Agreement (1947)

Gentleman’s Agreement (1947)

(On Cable TV, April 2019) For all the flack that Hollywood social-issues drama films often get as insincere, award-begging performative exercises, they certainly can help chart the social evolution of the United States throughout the decades. Gentleman’s Agreement, having won a Best Picture Oscar (albeit being one of the most obscure winners of the award), can be considered a successful A-grade social-issues drama, and it does make for intriguing viewing. Gregory Peck is in fine likable form as a writer who, as an assignment in a new city, tells everyone he’s Jewish. Antisemitism being the topic of the film, you can imagine how well that goes: Ostracism, prejudice, snide remarks, exclusion, fights with his girlfriend and so on. Taking place in upstate New York fine society makes it more infuriating. By focusing as much on the bigotry than on the duty to stand up to bigotry, the film remains effective despite a few naïve moments and on-the-nose messages: nobody likes to think of themselves as bigot, but it’s not as obvious to be against bigotry, especially given the so-called “grown-up” desire to get along and not be perceived as a troublemaker … as happens to the protagonist here. It’s not a perfect film: the romantic ending seems to come out of nowhere—especially since the film seems to play with presenting a suitable alternative to the proudly prejudiced fiancée. It’s also a bit unlikely that a man of the world such as the lead character would be initially surprised at the prejudice he encounters as a self-proclaimed Jew—the film becomes more effective once it dispenses with the first few early scenes to show the tension in being part of that social circle and yet making sure that it is restricted from “these people.”  Finally, there’s the issue of “temporal inconvenience” that has dogged majority representation of minority issues, but let’s stop there—Gentleman’s Agreement was daring enough in 1947 that it should be assessed kindly. Few other actors than Peck or director Elia Kazan would be able to pull off the righteousness of his protagonist without coming across a sanctimonious and that ultimately is what separates Gentleman’s Agreement from other, less successful films. (There’s also the prestige A-list star treatment to help make sure this was the winning pick rather than the same year’s film noir Crossfire, but that’s an entirely different review…)

The Yearling (1946)

The Yearling (1946)

(On Cable TV, April 2019) While I’m not one to turn up my nose at black-and-white films anymore, I get almost unaccountably giddy every time I see 1940s films in colour—the garishness may feel off, but it makes the films feel more alive than many of their contemporaries—and that’s particularly the case with pictures largely shot outdoors such as The Yearling. The subject matter remains unusual, focusing as it does on seventeenth-century Florida homesteaders as they work their way through isolation, the death of most of their children, withholding of parental affection and the adoption of a baby deer as a pet. While the plot itself is meandering (something to blame on the source novel) and rests on shaky foundations for modern parents, the film’s animal scenes quite impressive: the bear sequence alone still holds up. Young Gregory Peck is fantastic in the lead role. Still, the highlight is probably the great outdoors cinematography—much of the film was shot on location, and that clearly shows on screen. (Amusingly or not, legend has it that there was a previous attempt to film The Yearling at the same place four years earlier with Spencer Tracy, but It had to be dropped due to the bugs, the heat and Tracy’s distaste for the material.)  I’m not that fond of the result, but The Yearling certainly remains unique.

Marooned (1969)

Marooned (1969)

(On Cable TV, March 2019) Considering that I really like the subgenre of space disaster thrillers, I’m more favourably predisposed than most toward Marooned. On the one hand, it’s an early example of the space thriller, and you’d be surprised at the numerous parallels that this 1969 film has with both the 1970 real-life Apollo 13 incident and its 1995 movie depiction. The close cooperation that director John Sturges got from NASA helps the film’s credibility, and in turn helped it age remarkably well—the Cold War period feel is a glimpse into how such premises played out at the end of the 1960s, and give a fascinating patina to the result. The film won an Oscar for best Visual Effects, and much of the miniature work is still quite good—and there’s a lot of it. Acting-wise, the film can depend on the great Gregory Peck, Richard Crenna and a young Gene Hackman. On the other hand, there’s a reason why the film was also featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000—it’s stoic to the point of being bloodless, almost unbearably dull even in the middle of the suspense. The realism is pushed to an extreme that prevents it from being truly involving. Marooned can’t quite figure out the difference between displaying steely-eyed upper-lip stiffness and between allowing its characters to feel endangered. Later movies of the subgenre, from Apollo 13 to Gravity, would fare much better.

Spellbound (1945)

Spellbound (1945)

(Youtube Streaming, November 2018) Lost among the moniker “master of suspense” is the stone-cold fact that Alfred Hitchcock could be downright weird when it suited his purpose. In his quest for unpredictable thrills, Hitchcock’s career is crammed with ludicrous plot devices, unbelievable psychological quirks, formal experimentation and frequent return to basics. Some of his best and worst films are far away from reality, meaning that there’s little relationship between their eccentricity and their success. Sandwiched between the far more prosaic Lifeboat (1944) and Notorious (1946), Spellbound shows Hitchcock diving deep into psychoanalytical plot devices (something that would come up again later in his career) and coming up with surreal results. Literal surrealism, in fact, since there’s a dream sequence midway through the film that was designed by none other than Salvador Dali. The man-on-the-run plot feels familiar to Hitchcock fans (echoed in, say, North by Northwest), but it allows stars Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman to develop some pressurized chemistry. The details of the plot are less important than the meticulous details of its execution, and the way the film becomes just a bit more straightforward in time for its conclusion. There’s a memorable moment near the end that still jolts viewers through a combination of an obvious practical effect and a flash of colour. This isn’t one of Hitchcock’s finest films, but it’s nowhere near the bottom either—although it’s perhaps more fascinating as a prototype of later Hitchcock movies and a reunion of some very different artists than a wholly pleasing thriller in its own right.

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)

(On DVD, December 2017) on the one hand, it seems to me that the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird is structurally lopsided. It spends a lot of time on a trial in which a black man is accused of sexually assaulting a white girl, but that’s not the beginning nor the end of the story, which spends even more time watching over three kids as they grow up in an absurdly racist Southern town with their loving father. In modern terms, this would be a non-starter: the script would be rewritten to emphasize the trial, everything else shuffled to the side. But this is not a modern film and it’s not meant to be a trial movie—it’s adapted from a slice-of-life novel in which the trial is important but hardly the point of it all. To Kill a Mockingbird being shown from the kids’ perspective, it even comes as a clever reframing of a classic story through a slightly alien perspective. But Harper Lee’s adaptation aside, the film’s single biggest asset is Gregory Peck’s impeccable performance as impossibly virtuous attorney Atticus Finch. Not enough good can be written about Peck and his role—it’s the kind of award-winning performance that doesn’t just impress but inspire us all to become better persons. He carries the rest of the meandering movie by virtue of being a terrific dad, a righteous lawyer … and (the movie takes great care to point out) a terrific marksman able to put down a rabid dog with a single shot. Never mind the whimper of a conclusion (featuring no less than an already old-looking Robert Duvall)—the rest of the film is fine, but Peck is extraordinary. 

Cape Fear (1962)

Cape Fear (1962)

(On TV, September 2017) I caught this film mostly as a prelude to watching the 1991 remake, but I’m actually impressed at how well this Kennedy-era thriller has held up. Even (slightly) pulling its punches regarding violence and sexual assault, Cape Fear does manage to be gripping and nightmarish. Much of this effectiveness has to be credited to Robert Mitchum: Gregory Peck is fine as the stalwart hero of the story, but it’s Mitchum’s incredibly dangerous ex-convict character that makes the movie work so well even fifty-five years later. The houseboat assault sequence alone, a lengthy one-shot that begins with an egg being smashed on the film’s female lead, is still off-putting even today. It certainly helps that Cape Fear has a strong Hitchcock influence (he storyboarded it; J. Lee Thompson stepped in after Hitchcock quit the project but kept most of the style intact), and remains distinctive despite imitators and a lasting influence. I was favourably impressed by the film, and actually prefer it to its slick 1991 remake in many ways.

The Omen (1976)

The Omen (1976)

(On DVD, April 2017) Many horror movies from the seventies have not aged very well, and The Omen hovers in that strange zone between ridiculousness and effectiveness. What generally works is the atmosphere of dread, the middle section, the period detail and the refreshingly older protagonist (Gregory Peck, sixty years old at the time of the film’s release) anchoring the film. Those help The Omen maintain freshness even in light of everything that now look stupid about the film: The predictable nature of the bad-seed plot, slow pacing, familiar rehash of Catholic mythology, badly-staged horror sequences… It’s difficult, even psychopathic to think that you’d laugh at a plate-glass decapitation … until it happens and you think “gee, couldn’t this have been more convincing?” If nothing else, this sequence is a lesson in less-is-more—a tastefully restrained approach of not attempting to show the actual decapitations would have been far more effective. The Omen may have codified its share of horror clichés, but they are now clichés and the film suffers from their overuse. Still, there is some decent mainstream ambition from director Richard Donner in making this horror story a decent film for large audiences (rather than going the genre route) and it’s one of the reasons why, even if it does feel faintly silly, The Omen still reverberates today. [May 2017: Ah-ha! I finally remembered that I had read about The Omen’s decapitation scene in Harlan Ellison’s An Edge in my Voice … and that after seeing the actual result, it’s obvious that Ellison’s completely tone-deaf in describing his appalled reaction at audience laughter during the scene. The scene is over-the-top and almost designed, as is, to provoke laughter. Sorry Harlan—you’re not always right!]