Reeling Backward: "The Desert Rats" (1953)

"The Desert Rats" is a quasi/sorta sequel to "The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommell" with James Mason reprising his role as the famed German military tactician. I didn't care for the first film, as described in a previous column, but the follow-up is quite a ripping good war picture, as the old-timers are wont to say. (They are also wont to use antediluvian terms, like "wont" and "antediluvian.")

Instead of being a sympathetic, heroic figure, this time Rommel has a supporting role as the arrogant German commander, speaking mostly German and inspiring terror in all those around him. The focus, rather, is on the Australian troops who defied him during the long siege of Tobruk, a turning point in the World War II African front.

The film was directed by Robert Wise, one of Hollywood's most successful genre-hopping directors, and it was just Richard Burton's second American film, released when he was age 27. Burton was one of those actors who always seemed older than he really was -- when I first started watching the film I thought it was made in the mid-1960s, when in fact it came out in '53.

It's not that he appeared prematurely aged, despite his life of hard drinking and smoking; rather, his manly bearing and clipped line readings tended to make him seem more authoritarian and older.

Burton and Mason share one great scene together, where both men are wounded and being treated in a German medical tent, after Burton's character has been captured. Both actors taunt and sneer at each other, a mano-a-mano combat of words by two bloodied but proud men. It's also practically a contest to see which thespian can display better diction.

As far as historic fidelity goes, "The Desert Rats" is a total wipeout. Start out with the fact that the title got its nickname from an entirely different British outfit. In the film the Australian 9th Division holds the seaside base of Tobruk against Rommel for over eight months, allowing time for a newly-formed Allied army to forum up in Egypt and head west to oppose him. The real Aussies began referring to themselves as "the rats of Tobruk" in defiance of German propaganda that labeled them so.

Virtually everything that is depicted, from the personnel to the military tactics, was a fabrication by screenwriter Richard Murphy. The key sequence in which the British commanders allow Rommel's Panzers to penetrate their outer defenses as a trap is a concoction, as is the daring commando raid undertaken to blow up a German ammunition dump. And in actuality, the Australians were withdrawn after five months and the latter portion of the defense held by British troops.

In the best Hollywood tradition, Murphy, having taken a real, dramatic event and made up virtually everything about it for his script, was rewarded with an Oscar nomination.

And he deserved it. "The Desert Rats" is a war adventure, not a historical drama, and its allegiance is to its own semblance of truth, not a factual one.

Burton plays "Tammy" MacRoberts, aka Mac, a British infantryman captain who's given lead of an Australian outfit when their commander buys it. Over the course of the long siege, he is promoted to major and then a field promotion to lieutenant colonel, and placed in charge of several battalions.

The Aussies are naturally distrustful of having a British officer command them, and the resentment grows to near-mutiny level when Mac orders the Australian lieutenant (Charles Tingwell) court-martialed for leaving his post during a barrage to rescue a fellow officer. After getting a talking-to by both an Australian confidante and the British general, he agrees to withdraw the charges.

Eventually, Mac garners the respect of his troops and does them proud. His main access point in this endeavor is Tom Bartlett (Robert Newton), a middle-aged private who turns out to be an old schoolmaster of Mac's. He is deferential to his old teacher, repeatedly referring to him as "sir" despite their wide distance in rank and showing favoritism toward Bartlett in terms of cushy assignments.

Bartlett is an interesting character to have dropped into the middle of a film like this, and despite a fine performance by Newton -- best remembered for playing Long John Silver in Disney's Treasure Island" -- the character never really quite fits in. A self-confessed drunk, failure and coward, Bartlett moved to Australia to start a new life and enlisted while intoxicated when war broke out.

Near the end Bartlett volunteers for the most dangerous assignment there is, manning the forward sentry post where soldiers last about four hours before being killed. In movies of this sort, it's virtually a requirement that a character such as his die a noble death, but here Bartlett survives and is cheered by his fellow soldiers, becoming the unofficial mascot of their defiance.

As a footnote, I'd like to point out that "Rats" is one of those testosterone-laden movies in which no women have speaking roles, or are even seen. At one point we see a photograph of Mac's wife, as he comments that he's only seen her for a week since they got married in 1939 (the events take place in '41) and he's never met his son.

Wise and Murphy keep the action focused on the men and the military strategy, rather than making the mistake so many war pictures do of bringing in a bunch of mushy romance and secondary plots to distract us. At a crisp 86 minutes, "The Desert Rats" is all business.

Reeling Backward: "The Verdict"

If there's a greater actor in a better role than Paul Newman in "The Verdict," I haven't met it.

This 1982 legal drama directed by Sidney Lumet is one of my cinematic touchstones, a film that grabbed me at an early age and profoundly affected the way I approached movies. It still retains a strong hold on me and I think about it often, even though I doubt I've seen it more than a total of three times.

Watching it as a precocious preteen bedazzled by Jedis and replicants, "The Verdict" opened me up to a universe of serious films where the characters didn't do much more than talk. It's an incredibly spare film, lacking big showy moments, and with barely any music to push or pull the audience into easy emotional catharsis.

Even Frank Galvin's courtroom speeches are rambling and unfocused -- he comes across less as an attorney presenting a compelling legal argument than a stumblebum hanging out on the corner lamenting the woes of the world to no one in particular. It's hardly the fiery "you're out of order!" brimstone you usually see.

To call Frank down on his luck would be to presume that he ever had any.

When we first meet him, Lumet and screenwriter David Mamet (on just his second screenplay) go out of their way to depict him as a lowlife ambulance-chaser. He plays pinball with grim concentration, taking a breakfast of a beer with a raw egg cracked into it before heading out on his daily rounds. This mostly consists of following the funeral notices in the paper for potential cases. He bribes the morticians to introduce him to the bereaved family as an old friend, so he can slip them his card and drum up a wrongful death lawsuit.

We learn he's only handled four cases over the last three years, all of them out-of-court settlements. And that Frank had a brush with the law, nearly losing his law license for jury tampering a decade ago. Since then he's been riding the downward spiral, with retired lawyer friend Mickey Morrissey (Jack Warden) throwing him a case from time to time, and peeling him off his office floor when Frank's been on one of his benders.

The latest is a good one, a real "money-maker," Mickey promises. But Frank can't even remember the case when Mickey brings it up, 10 days before trial. He pulls himself together enough to meet with the clients, the sister and brother-in-law (Roxanne Hart and James Handy) of a woman who fell into a coma after going to the hospital to give birth and being given the wrong anesthetic. (Interestingly, the film never mentions what happened to the baby.)

The hospital is owned by the Archdiocese of Boston, and the calculating-but-not-uncaring Bishop (Edward Binns) offers Frank a $210,000 settlement. For his standard one-third fee, that would garner him a neat $70,000 (about $170k in today's dollars) -- enough to keep Frank flush in cheap cigarettes and breath spray for years. But he refuses, and insists on taking the case to trial.

Why? Part of the film's greatness is never definitively answering this question. Clearly Frank is deeply impacted when he visits the woman in the hospital, curled up in a permanent fetal position, and takes Polaroid photos of her. Lumet cleverly doesn't allow his camera to show her from the same angles as Frank's pictures, which bring her sad plight into focus -- for us and for him.

His clients don't want to go to trial. They make clear they're looking to recover $50,000, which is the amount a local facility wants as an endowment to take over perpetual care of the woman. The sister and brother-and-law want to move out west and wash their hands of the burden. So why does Frank turn down the settlement -- nearly coming to blows with the sister's husband when he finds out?

From a legal standpoint, his case is a mess. He only has the testimony of one over-the-hill country doctor (Joe Seneca), who turns out to be black to top things off. It's funny and sad to think about how just three decades ago, having an African-American doctor as your star witness was seen as undermining the case.

Of course, Frank stumbles into luck with a last-minute witness, an admitting nurse who was bullied into changing the medical form to cover up the doctor's mistake (played by Lindsay Crouse employing a full-on Boston blarney accent). He does so in part by breaking into a post office box to get an uncooperative woman's phone records.

Frank sees this as his last shot for ... well, not greatness, but at least legitimacy. After he wins this case, the final scene of him reposing in his office, refusing to answer a phone call he knows he oughtn't to, suggests that Frank will resume practicing the law with something like resolve. He'll probably keep boozing, and probably handle lowlife cases, but he'll be an attorney again.

About that phone call. Charlotte Rampling plays Laura, a divorced woman who takes Frank up like a lost child off the street and becomes his lover/confessor, bucking him up when things look bad. Certainly it's not because a burned-out 55-year-old drunk has any business nabbing her interest. Even his initial come-on lacks embellishment: "My God, you are some beautiful woman."

Secretly she's being paid off by Frank's opposing counsel, Ed Concannon (James Mason, in pure aristocratic arrogance mode), to feed him information. When Frank finds out, he belts her ... hard.

I'd like to talk about that punch. It was the thing I most remembered from seeing the movie, when Mr. Movie Star Paul Newman punches out a willowy-looking woman. There's a long, silent pause before he does so, as they look at each other. Wordlessly, the look of betrayal on his face is reflected in her own, as she realizes the gravity of what she's done.

The look on Newman's face is just classic. It's the expression of a beat-down dog who's just had his last bone taken away from him, and he's finally riled up and mad. He's ready to fight. Frank has lost everything -- his status, his wife, his friends -- and here is this woman gnawing away the last tatters of his dignity.

Violence against women is repugnant, but in the film's context it feels totally justified.

Aside from Newman, the performances are roundly solid. Rampling has a certain reserved, damaged quality -- we later learn she used to be a lawyer herself and is looking to get back in the game. Concannon is the real twisted soul, taking a case he could easily win and putting a couple of fingers on the scales of justice. I wonder if it ever occurred to Concannon that he is engaging in the sort of activity that nearly cost Frank his law license?

Warden is his usual blowsy, hard-talking presence. Seneca has a quiet dignity as a man who earns most of his livelihood testifying against other doctors in court. He acknowledges his vocation but fervently affirms the validity of it. Wesley Addy also has a small, subtle role as the accused doctor.

Milo O'Shea, who recently passed, is just terrific as Judge Hoyle, who handles Frank like a wayward student hawking spitballs in the back of his classroom. In his heart of hearts, he'd rather just see Frank thrown out in the the wilderness, but he does his duty anyway. Not without prejudice, however -- it's quite clear that the judge favors the defendant, and works to undermine Frank's case.

Yet, when the surprise witness has just undermined Concannon's case, he and the judge have this great exchange of stares where O'Shea peers out from beneath those marvelous caterpillar eyebrows with a look that says, "You're on your own, me bucko."

That's one of the things that dazzled me when I recently watched "The Verdict" again -- how it makes every big moment bigger by going smaller. In its lean, small, often wordless and soundless way, "The Verdict" is a piece of true greatness.

Reeling Backward: "The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel" (1951)

The fact is not lost on me that this column is posting on June 6, the 67th anniversary of D-Day -- quite possibly, the most pivotal day in the history of mankind. If the Allied invasion at Normandy had failed, there's no telling the dark path down which humanity might have been set.

The man charged with defending the German beach defense was Erwin Rommel, regarded by many of his enemies as the finest military mind of his generation. His exploits in North Africa are legend, and if he hadn't spent most of his time fighting with one or more arms tied behind his back -- short on men and weapons, and under the thumb of a madman -- Rommel might well have resisted the invasion by British and American forces.

It is strange that figures such as Winston Churchill felt compelled to memorialize the man who briefly held the fate of the world in his hands, but such is the vagaries of war. Had Rommel been able to direct the defenses to his own design, we might be spitting his name as a vile oath now.

The film about him, "The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel," is a muddled mess. Despite the title, there is little to nothing in the way of narrative about his African exploits -- the way his tanks commanded the desert, and he himself acquired an almost supernatural reputation for avoiding harm.

Call me a literalist, but a biopic that does not even touch on the defining period in a man's life is doomed from the start. Imagine "The Spirit of St. Louis" confined to Charles Lindbergh's life after his historic Atlantic flight.

The story opens with the failed mission by some British stealth soldiers to assassinate Rommel. Then there's a brief sequence about Desmond Young, the English colonel who briefly met Rommel while a prisoner of war. Young, playing himself (though his supposed narration was dubbed by an actor), returned to Germany after the war to find out the truth about Rommel's death. His book formed the basis of this movie, screenwritten by Nunnally Johnson and directed by Henry Hathaway.

The purpose of the book and movie is not to tell the complete story of Rommel's life, but to set the historical record straight about his death. To wit: Rommel did not die of a heart attack or succumb to war wounds, as Hitler's Nazi regime reported to the German people, but was forced to commit suicide in retaliation for Rommel's tacit approval of the failed assassination attempt of Hitler.

As Germany's most celebrated soldier, the revelation of Rommel's participation would have been a tremendously demoralizing blow, Hitler's cronies felt -- never mind that Rommel didn't actually collaborate with the assassins, and in fact was hospitalized in a coma after his car was strafed by enemy airplanes at the time Hitler's bunker was bombed.

Faced with certain conviction, public humiliation and a painful death by garroting, Rommel still demanded a public trial -- until Hitler's henchmen warned that his wife (soulfully played by Jessica Tandy in an undersized part) and son (William Reynolds) would not be spared. Faced with no choice at all, Rommel agreed to be driven to a remote forest, swallow a cyanide capsule and let the lie about his death be spread.

This should be riveting stuff, and if the entire movie were about Rommel's last days and his final choice -- to die a good soldier -- it might have been better for it. Perhaps the film could start with the presentation of Rommel's stark decision, and flashbacks to his life would paint a picture of why he could only arrive at the choice he did.

But I learned from Gene Siskel way back when that a reviewer should criticize a movie for what it is, not for what it is not. So rather than wishing for the film that might have been made about the life of the Desert Fox, I can merely express my disappointment at the one they did.

James Mason plays Rommel, his hair cropped so short his fleshy scalp peeks through, in a performance of clipped diction and ramrod-straight posture. Mason plays Rommel as a man so consumed by his sense of duty, and to an Old World sense of chivalry about the gentlemanly art of war, that he refused to act upon the clear evidence before him. The man who could have best ensured an orderly transition from the insanity of Hitler's regime to peace was simply incapable of an overt act of treason.

It's the credo of Edmund Burke, writ large: "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

Alas, all that is necessary for a bad film to be made is for people with good intentions to muddle their way through without a clear sense of purpose. "The Desert Fox" bounces around from Africa to Normandy to Berlin, skipping over months and even years at a time without much rhyme or reason to it.

The film reaches a comically awful low point when Rommel confronts Hitler as one final test for himself before he throws in with the conspirators. Luther Adler plays Hitler as a prissy, chubby little joke of an enfant terrible. That works fine for "The Great Dictator," but for a drama like this Hitler should be unnerving and terrifying -- more Bruno Ganz in "Downfall."

"The Desert Fox" is a well-meaning but ultimately wrong-headed account of a great man who was a product of his time.

1.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Odd Man Out" (1947)

Before "The Third Man" and "The Man Between" -- the latter of which also starred James Mason and was featured in this column a few months ago -- director Carol Reed made "Odd Man Out."

This film influenced and was influenced by American film noir, especially the first act where some IRA gunmen rob a mill and the getaway is botched. But the movie grows progressively more dream-like and surreal, and becomes less about the heist than one man's stumbling walkabout through the seedy side of Belfast.

Mason plays Johnny McQueen, local chief of the IRA -- though the film itself is careful never to directly label it so. Officially, the film is neutral about "the troubles," even going so far as to proclaim in a title card that it is only concerned with the innocent people caught in the fray.

But with the noble struggle of Johnny and those who help him, assisted by the sinister, steely presence of the police inspector (Denis O'Dea) on his trail, it's not difficult to see where the film's true sentiments lie.

"Odd Man Out" was based on the novel by F.L. Green, who co-wrote the script with veteran film scribe R.C. Sherriff.

Johnny, having holed up in a house for six months after escaping from prison, leads the heist to fill the coffers of the organization despite the protest of his men that he's gone soft. He insists on going anyway, rebuffing the warnings of Kathleen (Kathleen Ryan, in her first screen role), the woman who runs the house where he lives, and who clearly has fallen in love with him.

Sure enough, Johnny swoons during the job and is wounded by one of the guards at the mill, shooting the man dead in return. The getaway car driver speeds away too fast before Johnny is pulled all the way in, and he falls out. The accomplices drive on, leaving him to his fate.

At this point the movie takes an odd turn. Shot in the shoulder and slowly oozing life, Johnny becomes the object of a massive manhunt by both the police and locals interested in turning him in for the reward money of 1,000 pounds. A few people help him, or at least see him on his way before they get into trouble themselves.

Two middle-aged women help Johnny into their house and start to dress his wounds, but when the man of the house returns home and they start squabbling about whether to turn him in, Johnny slips out the door.

He falls asleep in a horse-drawn cab, which by chance carries him safely through the police checkpoint. One copper, familiar with the old cabbie, asks him who he's got in the back, and the fellow sarcastically replies, "Johnny!" They share a laugh and the cab is let by.

The cabbie later deposits a delirious Johnny in a lumber yard, where he's discovered by Shell (F.J. McCormick), a mousy old hobo. Shell would love to turn him in for the reward, but is cagey enough to know the IRA would target him for collaboration. Instead, he turns to the local priest, Father Tom (W.G. Fay). They have a long rambling conversation about Shell's compensation for bringing Johnny in, which Father Tom insists will be a greater reward in Heaven rather than a monetary one.

As things turn out, Johnny ends up at the dilapidated building where Shell lives with two other men. The three argue about his fate as Johnny slips in and out of consciousness.

Shell wants to receive something for turning Johnny in, he doesn't care to whom. Tober (Elwyn Brook-Jones), a failed doctor, fixes up Johnny's arm but insists that he'll die without a blood transfusion at a hospital, which of course would mean his capture. Most extreme is Lukey (Robert Newton), a mad painter who wants to capture Johnny's dying moments on canvas.

Meanwhile, Kathleen roams the streets looking for Johnny. She's arranged passage on a boat overseas where they can be together, away from the troubles.

What's interesting about this rotating circus of strange characters is that everyone wants to get their hands on Johnny for their own, ultimately selfish purposes.

Shell wants a reward; Lukey wants to create art out of death; Tober wants to use wasted medical skills to save his body; the inspector wants to see justice satisfied by Johnny's execution; even Father Tom is less concerned with Johnny's fate than with saving his soul, offering him a chance for a final confession of his sins.

The only person who truly cares about Johnny, the whole of his body and soul, is Kathleen.

Things end gruesomely. Kathleen finally finds Johnny near the harbor, near death. She struggles to help him to their escape as the police close in. Realizing they won't make it, and rather than let the authorities carry out their judgment, Kathleen shoots at the ground, forcing the police to return fire, killing them both. (In the novel, she shoots Johnny herself, but this ending wouldn't pass muster with the censors.)

I really enjoyed the dark atmospheric cinematography, and a wonderful, large cast. The movie kind of wanders away from itself in the second half, but I mostly enjoyed the places where it rambled.

3 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" (1954)

Keeping with the nautical theme for this week's classic film columns, today I'll be taking a look at Disney's 1954 version of Jules Verne's "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."

Not long ago in this space I commented that I didn't think Golden Age Hollywood divided movies up so neatly into kids' movies and adult ones as they are today, and I think this adaptation of the famed 19th century science fiction novel helps prove my point.

"Leagues" is from Walt Disney, one of the first live-action films he produced himself, and there certainly are light-hearted moments meant to appeal to children. Most of these are centered around the character of Ned Land, a happy-go-lucky mariner played by Kirk Douglas. He sings, he carouses with women, he gets into fistfights ever 20 minutes or so, and befriends Captain Nemo's pet seal -- even singing a duet with it.

But watch James Mason's portrayal of Nemo, the mad submariner who's taken to the sea as his refuge from the evils of mankind. It's a hard-edged, dramatic performance, with no winking nods or cartoonish layers. You could transport Mason whole into a much darker movie with R-rated violence, and he would fit like a glove.

The other two main characters Paul Lukas as Professor Aronnax and Peter Lorre (grown old and thick) as his servile assistant, Conseil. I'm sure most people are familiar with the basic gist of the story: Arronax and his two companions are captured by Nemo, who makes them guests/prisoners aboard the Nautilus, his amazing submarine.

I just love the stupendous arrogance of Mason's Nemo, as seen in this exchange with the professor:

Arronax: "I'm afraid that I don't understand."
Nemo: "At the moment, I don't intend that you should."

Verne's novels were notable for their (often amazingly accurate) portrayal of the technology of the future, as seen from the mid-1800s. So it's interesting when filmmakers with another century of scientific advancement under their belts try to portray a futuristic past. All of the amazing stuff aboard the Nautilus -- diving suits, electrified hulls, periscopes -- were old hat by 1954.

Although Nemo's invention is not terribly advanced in weaponry: He doesn't have any torpedoes or guns -- he takes out offending ships trolling his seas by simply ramming them.

The production values of the film, directed by Richard Fleischer, hold up pretty well more than a half-century on. The art direction aboard the Nautilus has a splendid brass-and-iron look to it. Of course, the ship itself is a wonder of imagination, with its two large viewing windows resembling eyes, and overlapping hull plates that give it a crustacean look.

Like a lot of people my age, I first encountered the story of "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" by visiting the ride at Disney World. I was heartbroken, even well into adulthood, when they shut it down in 1994.

The film deviates quite a bit from the book, which featured a rash of other adventures never portrayed, including visits to the South Pole and the lost city of Atlantis.

The big battle with the kraken is the centerpiece of the movie, and it's still an energetic and swashbuckling scene. Reportedly it was originally supposed to take place in daylight on a calm day, but the technicians were worried the cables used to control the massive squid would be visible. So they changed it to a stormy scene at night -- adding hundreds of thousands of dollars (a fortune then) and six extra weeks of shooting to the production.

It's grown a little hokey with years, and there's now denying the film is pitched more to audience members who measure their age in single digits. But "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" is a rousing adventure story with dark undertones that all ages can savor.

Notably, although there were several film versions prior to this one, it's stood for more than a half-century as the quintessential adaptation of Verne's book. (A few TV versions have come and gone.) Now Hollywood has two remakes in the works, racing to get into theaters first in 2012 or 2013. I enjoyed the Disney version, but I'd love to see a grittier take.

Too bad James Mason isn't around to star.

3 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "Julius Caesar"

At the risk of sounding foolish, I have never really cared for William Shakespeare.

When I say that, I'm talking about actual performances of his plays, as opposed to reading them. The Bard's work is really best experienced textually, where you can look at the words, repeat them to yourself, study them and -- as is often necessary -- research them to figure out just what the heck ol' Will was saying.

It's not just the half a millennium that has passed between us, with a changing set of historical reference points and the understandable migration of the English language over that time.

Shakespeare was writing for an extremely literate audience -- one that lived in a city large enough to support a playhouse, and populated by people rich enough to afford to go. So he wrote long, beautiful prose that no living person, now or then, could possibly conjure to their lips on the spur of the moment.

I guess that's the thing I've never been able to get past with Shakespeare: It just doesn't sound anything like real people talking. Even the very best orators are not off-the-cuff eloquent and cohesive in their speech -- just listen to the difference when President Obama doesn't have a teleprompter in front of him.

Or, to get the fully glory of "ums," "y'knows" and the general disorderliness of regular people talking, just tune in to any of the podcasts we do over at The Film Yap.

All this is a rather long wind-up to saying that although I appreciated the wonderful acting performances and production values of Joseph L. Mankiewicz' 1953 production of "Julius Caesar," I simply had too hard a time piercing the dense fog of beautiful but confounding dialogue to really appreciate the film.

The cast is magnificent. John Gielgud plays Cassius, the main instigator of the uprising against Julius Caesar, who had defeated all his enemies and been declared Rome's dictator for life. James Mason is Brutus, Caesar's good friend and "the noblest man of Rome," who leads the assassins because he feels Caesar has usurped too much power.

Caesar -- a relatively minor character in the play and film that bears his name -- is played by Louis Calhern. And Marlon Brando is Mark Antony, his best friend and right-hand man. Edmund O'Brien is Casca, Greer Garson is Caesar's wife Calpurnia, and Deborah Kerr is Brutus' wife Portia.

The story is well known, so I won't belabor describing the plot. The film's high point is Marc Antony's address to the Roman throng on the stairs of the Senate shortly after Caesar's murder, where he slyly indicts Brutus and his co-conspirators without ever coming right out and saying it.

But really, the most compelling figure of the film is Brutus, who is played by Mason as a man of pure heart struggling with inner conflict. Even Mark Antony honors Brutus, even as he maneuvers to oust him and capture power for himself.

The depiction of Caesar's murder is particularly bloody for a 1953 film, but since the play had scenes with his murderers dipping their hands in his blood and so forth, it would be hard to film a family-friendly version.

The costumes, sets and other production values are top-notch -- this film won the Academy Award for art direction.

Although I must say those Caesar haircuts are distracting -- you know the ones, where the hair is parted a the crown of the head and combed forward. No matter how handsome the actor, he always looks like he's wearing linguine with that style.

I also couldn't help but notice that both Mason and Gielgud wear Roman-style sandals, but with a high heel that adds a few inches to their height. Both actors were tallish, just under 6 feet, so the effect is to make them loom over most of the rest of the cast. I didn't notice any other actors wearing lift shoes, and if you glance at their feet when they're visible in a few scenes, it's rather comical.

I hope you won't think ill of me that I just can't get into Shakespeare -- at least rote recitations of his plays. I think the best way to experience his timeless works is with movies that recast his language and setting in modern idioms, like Baz Luhrmann's 1996 "Romeo + Juliet" or the 1995 version of "Richard III" starring Ian McKellan.

Or just under a good lamp, with reading glasses, if necessary.

2.5 stars

Reeling Backward: Berlin Spy Sagas

I'm trying something a little different here for the classic film review -- I'll be comparing two Cold War spy films set in post-WWII Berlin. The films are "The Man Between" from 1953 and 1965's "The Spy Who Came in from the Cold."

Both movies feature a protagonist who's cynical and world-weary, yet finds a way to do the right thing. They both end with thrilling climaxes at the East/West Germany border. And both star Claire Bloom.

"Spy" was directed by Martin Ritt from the novel by John le Carre; "Man" was directed by Carol Reed, best known for "The Third Man," which covered similar ground.

Richard Burton played the "Spy," while James Mason was the "Man." Both men's characters carefully cultivate a sense of self-loathing, which in each case is pierced by their relationship with the Claire Bloom character. She plays the innocent, or at least naive, woman who falls for a man knowing full well he is rife with faults.

In "Spy," Bloom plays Nan, an English member of the Communist Party. She works in a library and quietly agitates for her beliefs. Then one day Alec Leamas (Burton) comes to work as an assistant librarian. He's approaching middle age, a disgraced spy, and a drunk. Little does she know that this is a carefully orchestrated ruse to make the East Germans think he is a turncoat.

After Leamas goes over the wall -- in this case, the Berlin Wall -- he is quickly caught in a bit of subterfuge between his Marxist counterparts. There's a battle of wills between the number two spymaster, Fiedler, and his boss, Mundt. Leamas has been sent over to discredit Mundt, but when Nan is brought in as a witness, she unwittingly becomes a pawn in a complex game of spy intrigue.

"Man" is set earlier, in the days before the Berlin Wall was built. But the border is no less forbidding. Still, Susanne (Bloom), a young English girl visiting her brother and his German wife, finds that she can cross over to the East German side without too much trouble. There she meets Ivo Kern (Mason), a shadowy charmer who has some nefarious hold over Susanne's sister-in-law.

In short order she learns that Ivo is the man working both sides against each other, with his own skin his primary concern. In a thrilling extended chase sequence that occupies the last 45 minutes or so, Ivo and Susanne are caught on the wrong side of the border with all the Communists on the lookout for them. It's during these scenes, where Ivo repeatedly attempts to dissuade Susanne from any amorous feelings toward him, that we see what's really in his heart.

Both films are shot in grim black-and-white that lends a gritty, cinema verite feeling. It's interesting how in "Man" there is Communist propaganda all around, especially images of Joseph Stalin, while in "Cold" the backgrounds are drab and cramped, without ornamentation.

Each films ends with a showdown during an attempted border crossing, as Bloom and her paramours attempt to flee back over to the West German side. I don't think I'm spoiling anything when I say they both end in tragedy.

This is the third Claire Bloom film I've featured recently in this space -- she played Hera in "Clash of the Titans" -- and I must say I've enjoyed discovering her as an actress. She's had a long and productive career, and at age 78 she's still going with regular television appearances.

She had her first major role the year before "Man," playing the ingenue who steals Charlie Chaplin's heart in "Limelight," his last movie -- well, his last good movie, anyway. I'll be keeping an eye out for more of her work.

Both films: 3.5 stars

(Programming note: I couldn't find a trailer or a current DVD available for "The Man Between.")