the devil to pay: Mephisto (1981)

   Mephisto. Kino Lorber Repertory presents; a film by István Szabó; a Mafailm Objektiv Studio production in cooperation with Manfred Durniok Production; screenplay by Péter Dobai and István Szabó; directed by István Szabó. New York, NY: Kino Classics, 2020. Based on the novel by Klaus Mann. Originally released as a motion picture in 1981. Bonus features: audio commentary by film historian Samm Deighan; 'The central Europe of István Szabó'; Remembrance of production designer József Romvári; trailer.
   Performers: Klaus Maria Brandauer, Krystyna Janda, Ildiko Bansagi, Rolf Hoppe, Peter Andorai, Karin Boyd. Summary: the story of a stage actor’s dilemma in 1930s Germany as to whether he should cooperate with the Nazi regime or assert his independence. Eventually a Faustian bargain is reached.


“What do you want? I’m only an actor . . . ”

   István Szabó has never received his due in the pantheon of cinematic auteurs, and similarly his opus maximus Mephisto hasn’t gotten the respect it deserves. The film’s current semi-oblivion is a long way from its initial release and subsequent, albeit short-lived, apotheosis as evidenced by its being the first Hungarian movie anointed with the Oscar for best foreign film. Thus the very recent Kino DVD is all the more welcome [1].

   To me, the film that most resembles Mephisto is Cabaret [2]. Yes, Cabaret is a musical, more or less, and Mephisto is not. More important, in Cabaret the personal story receives more emphasis than the historical context, and in Mephisto the reverse is true, at least in the second half of the film. In any case, both Mephisto and Cabaret have the dark undercurrent of impending fascism that overlays every scene, and like Cabaret, Mephisto is arguably more satisfying in small doses rather than full gulp – for all its virtues the whole never quite equals the sum of the parts. Mephisto then is a vignette-rich affair, laden with period detail, sumptuous production design and fine acting, but like our hero, lacking a true center of gravity.

   Although it’s set in the early, though no less dark, years of National Socialist Germany, Mephisto is really a timeless meditation on: how far will we go for temporary success, power, admiration? It explores the existential nuances that creative – and performing – artists find themselves enmeshed in when working in a totalitarian regime. As a result, some artists thrive, some barely survive, and some lose everything. As a consequence, deals with the devil have to be made. One might – a bit self righteously perhaps – make the comparison to the absolute power of the dollar in otherwise democratic countries, and the attendant encroachment of bourgeois consumerist culture, where image making, promotion and management assume a ruthless prominence. A softer form of totalitarianism, if you like, but the principle still applies: what price glory, success, artistic opportunism? Thus an extra layer of pungent irony in our hero Höfgen’s association with a Bolshevik theater troupe in his up-and-coming years in Hamburg: Russian style communism was eminently, and equally, repugnant to both fascist and capitalist sensibilities.

   Still, thanks to Klaus Maria Brandauer’s miraculous performance, we relate to the flawed main character; we actually sort of root for him, compromised as he is. He gets our sympathy, perhaps because he’s been co-opted by forces far more adept at the deadly game than he. Thus he is, maybe not quite a victim, but in any case very much out of his league, and we recognize this.

   In a curious sleight of hand Szabó and the writers manage to brilliantly conjure up a 1930s German zeitgeist without ever mentioning real people, or for the most part real events. You’ll listen in vain for the words Hitler, Führer or Goebbels. You’ll hear no Wagner music. Moreover, real events tend to be obscured or misrepresented. Yes, they get the Reichstag fire correct, but there’s a reference to the Nazis polling a majority of the vote in an election. Actually the best the Nazis ever did was a middling 37 per cent, a plurality to be sure, but far from a majority [3].

   Along the way we meet a Herman Göring-like General [4] who also serves as ‘prime minister.’ He fancies himself an aesthete and benevolent patron of the arts. No surprise then that he loves pomp and ceremony, especially when it’s in his honor. With icy malevolence he delivers his words with an undercurrent of the threat of violence even when he’s affecting his most silky exterior. And he doesn’t hesitate to brutally, in both the literal and figurative sense, put artists in their place when they stray, even his protégé Höfgen. There’s also a sculptress who specializes in hideous massive nudes the type of which made Nazi officials salivate. The woman suggests Leni Riefenstahl though the connection isn’t made explicit. Otherwise the various characters – officious bureaucrats, elegantly dressed SS officers, high society beau monde – function more as types than substitutes for real people.

   Trivia: Mephisto ostensibly is based on the career arc of Gustaf Gründgens, a prominent German actor in the 1930s, but in an ironic twist the film anticipates Brandauer’s eventual film career, which, like Höfgen‘s, peaked early on.

   [1] Special mention is also due to film historian Samm Deighan‘s insightful commentary, which is almost as good as the film itself.
   [2] Sometimes it conjured up The Last Metro, also overtones of Das Leben der Anderen.
   [3] Contrary to popular opinion, Hitler didn’t seize power, nor did he win in a fair and open election. Actually power was handed to him: in 1933 a group of conservative politicians, including former chancellor Franz Von Papen, with the acquiescence of President Hindenburg, agreed to make Hitler chancellor in the misguided calculation that they could control him.
   [4] Rolf Hoppe does a wonderful job in the role of the general, though he doesn’t particularly resemble Göring physically.

no exit : D.O.A. (1950)

Noir-heads are only too familiar with the genre’s favorite tropes: doomed heroes, back-stabbing femme fatales, visual flourishes, fatalistic plots, thunderous music. But D.O.A. stands out amongst the noir oeuvre for its totally sui generis status. Yes, it has virtually all the noir themes and characters, in abundance. But its premise, and to some extent, underlying psychology, is unique. I can’t think of any film, noir or otherwise, that has as its main plot point a guy that’s been murdered and he’s still literally alive [1], not just alive but trying to solve the case. Probably the closest is Sunset Blvd., in which we have a wise guy narrator who talks to us from beyond the grave. But it’s not quite the same thing; the William Holden character in Sunset is already dead and is just retelling the story. In D.O.A. the murdered hero is still alive, kicking, and trying to figure out what’s going on in a spiritual and existential morass that spirals out of control to a degree that’s extreme even by noir standards.

   The basic issue is not whether Frank Bigelow will die or not – that’s been pre-ordained – but why. Our hero’s eventual discovery, far too late, is more in the nature of the how instead of the why of his murder. As for the real reason, well, it’s merely the vicissitudes of fate, or to put it more bluntly, and quintessentially noirishly, for no good reason at all. Yes, there is a technical reason – notarizing a bill of sale. But the ultimate consequences are hardly proportional to the transgression, if one may put it that way. Again we have a classic noirish message: it’s an unfair universe, fella. Get over it.

   As the movie whirls and twists its way through the maelstrom we become more, not less, confused amongst the myriad receipts, bills, sales, aliases, spiked drinks, false leads, photographs, love letters, philandering and threats of philandering, and we never quite know the full story. But who cares? Best to sit back and enjoy the wild ride and delight in the dream-like excess. Indeed the whole production is awash in over-the-topness, especially the earnest B level acting that verges on camp but never quite gets there. My guess is that all involved were playing this totally straight as just another B movie, Ed Wood with a bigger budget and more talent, if you like.

   But first, let’s get to the only real misstep, and dispense with it straight away. It’s of course the hokey and hopelessly in-bad-taste (to current sensibilities anyway) wolf whistles while Frank ogles the ladies upon his arrival at the hotel. The whistles are especially incongruous given that the women Frank admires look singularly unappetizing, adorned as they are in frumpy, Forties-style garb. The only other, arguable, misfire is the prolonged romantic scene between Paula and Frank toward the end of the film. Now moving on to the good stuff: there’s great on-location scenes in San Francisco and Los Angeles (you can’t go wrong with the Bradbury Building for a thriller). Maybe the best sequence in the film is the scene at the jazz club (appropriately named The Fisherman) [2], shot in an orgiastically expressionist manner with alternating hopped up audience and wild-eyed musicians performing a bobsled ride of a jazz tune at an ever frenzied pace. By the way the proto-Beat clientele is mostly white but if one looks closely we can see hints of a multi-racial crowd, something quite unusual for a late Forties film, even an under the radar product like D.O.A. Oddly enough, and contrary to popular opinion, jazz features little in noir either as background or source music [3]. Jazz clubs are even scarcer, and this is one of the best sequences ever. The more conventional film music for D.O.A. is, in its different way, just as good. The manic pace and sweltering, claustrophobic feel throughout the story is perfectly complemented by Dmitri Tiomkin’s intrusive, bombastic score.

   Anyhow, as to the cast, Edmund O’Brien is perfect in the role of Frank Bigelow, in many, and sometimes surprising ways. For a hefty guy he shows some pretty fancy footwork skipping down steps and sprinting to avoid the bad guys chasing him. And as much as O’Brien more or less dominates the film as the frantic, frazzled Bigelow, it’s the women who steal the show.

   Pamela Britton as Paula usually gets the brunt of the bad reviews, both for the performance and the character. Okay, Miss Britton may not be the best actress in the world, or even the best in this movie. Similarly the character Paula is usually savaged for being a stereotypical clinging, whiny girlfriend/wife wannabe. But upon repeated viewings, and from the perspective of seventy years on, Paula (and Miss Britton’s performance) becomes something of an acquired taste, growing more appealing, human and sympathetic each time [4]. Indeed a case might be made that she’s the only admirable character in the story. She’s attractive, loyal, steadfast, speaks her mind (albeit sometimes impulsively and not too wisely), wants to love and be loved, and moreover is a darn good secretary. She actually looks pretty good next to the various specimens of womanhood – grifters, schemers, low-lifes, alcoholic nymphomaniacs, jazz freaks, double crossers, and who knows what else – Frank encounters on his quest. This doesn’t excuse his unchivalrous penchant for roughing up women along the way. No sympathy points for Frank here. To his credit he reserves even rougher treatment for the men, most of whom, happily, have it coming.

   1950s B movie scream queen Beverly Garland (here billed as Beverly Campbell) has a small role but registers a wallop with her bulging eyes. Ditto for a snarling Laurette Luez as the duplicitous ingénue – why didn’t this woman have a bigger career? [5] We talk more about Virginia Lee as the jazz obsessed ‘Easy’ in the footnote, below. But maybe best of all among the ladies is a 26 year-old Lynn Baggett playing, very convincingly, a fortyish grieving widow with something to hide. Her real life saga is only too noir-like: her career and life were cut short in most untimely, and most cruel, fashion. (After a tumultuous life she died in 1960 at the age of 36 from an overdose). Then there’s salon stylist and small town femme fatale Kitty (Carol Hughes) who has the eye for Frank. Alas she departs the story much too soon. Finally, how can we overlook Cay Forrester as Sue, the woman who likes to dance, and likes her alcohol. She comes on to Frank a bit too strong, much to her husband’s disapproval.

   The spot on remainder of the cast sparkles, even – especially – the supporting and bit players, who include some familiar faces in the noir universe. Peter Graves lookalike William Ching makes for a wonderfully smooth bad guy. The suave, always delightful Ivan Triesault, so memorable as the sinister Mathis a few years earlier in Notorious, here is reduced to a cameo as the manager of the photography studio where Frank goes to track down ’George Reynolds.’ Nonetheless he’s a welcome touch of Old World savoir faire. Which reminds me, yes, I have to give props to Neville Brand as Majak’s psychotic enforcer Chester. His is a chillingly overwrought take. By contrast, Luther Adler as the aging capo Majak oozes calm, sinister elegance. Trivia: IMDB credits Hugh O’Brian and John Payne for bit parts in D.O.A., but darned if I see them.

   So … is there a moral to D.O.A.? Indeed a case can be made that all films noirs are at heart morality plays, in which the (anti)-hero, or –heroine, eventually learns the folly of their ways, at great remove, i.e. too late, usually accompanied by a very steep, sometimes irreversible, price. Such is the case with Frank Bigelow. To his credit he passes by several temptations, thus implying that, perhaps unconsciously, he was really more committed to Paula than he realized. But for Frank, the epiphany comes much too late, with the resultant cost being very high indeed. If there is a moral to D.O.A. it’s perhaps this: to know what we’ve already got, and be grateful for it. It may not be too much of a stretch to see a mythic quality to D.O.A.: Frank’s loss of Pamela and subsequent, alas far too late, appreciation of just how much he’s lost has overtones of the Orphic legend.
  
   The seemingly inevitable, nowhere near as good, remake appeared in 1988. There was also an unofficial remake, Color Me Dead (1969).

   [1] D.O.A.’s murder plot exists in a sort of reverse-retroactive time frame: the crime of murder has been committed but the hero’s death will actually take place in the future. This is distinct from the similarly plotted ‘spectral incognizance’ story, in which the unbeknownst protagonist has been dead or is in the process of dying all along, and it’s only revealed to the audience, and the protagonist, at the end. The early Sixties cult classic Carnival of Souls is a good example. The trope was also done for at last one Twilight Zone episode.

   [2] The scene at The Fisherman is probably the most unvarnished portrait of a jazz club in a mainstream film up to this time. A few years later the Brit noir Sleeping Tiger did a pretty good job of a realistic depiction of a jazz club, as did Kiss Me Deadly (1955), I Want to Live (1958), and Odds Against Tomorrow (1959), with KMD presenting a fairly sedate, otherwise all-black club where Mike Hammer likes to hang out. Like The Fisherman, the club in Odds Against Tormorrow is multi-racial, rare for films of that era. The jazz club in the below mentioned Sweet Smell of Success (1957) is a low-keyed, well scrubbed affair. Another depiction of a 1950s jazz club, this one another fairly bland, clean cut example, can be seen in the Perry Mason tv series, ‘The Case of the Jaded Joker,’ episode (1959).
    One of the aficionados of The Fisherman is an uptown, enigmatic blonde with a hint of the femme fatale. She seems to use jazz as an opiate and naturally she catches Frank’s wandering eye. Anyhow she’s played perfectly in mildly flirtatious, come-hither form by Virginia Lee. IMDB lists her character’s name as Jeannie (actually Bigelow addresses her as such), but I swear she calls herself ‘Edie’ or ‘Easy.’ In either case Miss Lee, whether as ‘Easy’ or ‘Jeannie,’ goes uncredited in the final print. By the way, the character of 'Easy' recalls the unnamed woman (memorably essayed by Joan Miller) who also sat at the end of the bar in Criss Cross of a few years earlier, though her thing was strictly alcohol, not music.
    Trivia: In D.O.A. the bartender at the club chastises Bigelow for not being very hip. Surprising that he uses this term given ‘hep’ was more in fashion in the Forties and even Fifties. Interestingly, in Sweet Smell of Success, which appeared nearly a decade after D.O.A., Hunsecker lectures the senator that any hep person could see that he and the young woman who accompanies him are an item. In the 1946 film Ziegfeld Follies Judy Garland performs “The Great Lady Gives an Interview,” in which she declares that she wants her fans to know she’s really hep. In 1958 Ann Miller essayed a live TV version of the same number and also used the word ‘hep.’

[3] Joel Dinerstein, The Origins of Cool in Postwar America, Univ. of Chicago Pr., 2017, pp.198-206.

[4] Miss Britton was woefully underutilized in the movies, and in the Fifties and Sixties she confined her work mostly to theater and television, most notably as Mrs. Brown on the tv series My Favorite Martian. Panela Britton was only 51 years old when she dies of a brain tumor in 1974.

[5] Miss Luez plays the femme fatale Marla Rakubian in D.O.A. Marla's a bit of a mystery woman since her status in Majac's criminal organization, as well as her ultimate fate, is murky. (Perhaps she used that ticket to Buenos Aires after all). We can assume she's 'George Reynold's'/Ray Rakubian's cousin, sister, or, most likely, widow. She seems to have a cozy, albeit non-romantic, relationship with Majac: he treats her in the manner of an affectionate uncle; he seems more fond of his brutal protégé Chester.

What are the best art movies of all time?

   There’s no shortage of postings on the ‘Net of the best arthouse movies, but when I take a look at some of the titles listed I confess a certain dismay, not unlike my incredulity when I heard Bob Dylan had won the Nobel Prize for literature. The Truman Show? Mulholland Drive? Really?! It’s not only a matter of taste, but one of definition. For example, the estimable Wikipedia chimes in with:

   “ … an art film (or art house film) is typically an independent film, aimed at a niche market, rather than a mass market audience. It is intended to be a serious, artistic work, often experimental and not designed for mass appeal, made primarily for aesthetic reasons rather than commercial profit, and contains unconventional or highly symbolic content."

   Long winded as this definition may be, I more or less agree. My only dissent is with the notion that an art movie is the same as an arthouse movie. Perhaps the confusion, at least in my own mind, is in the term ‘arthouse’ and its resemblance to the term ‘grindhouse’. Since grindhouse theaters have largely passed into history, perhaps the comparison is not apropos. Still, the similarities beyond just the terms themselves are noteworthy: both arthouse theaters and grindhouse theaters are/were frequently located in a marginal part of town; the repertoire is offbeat, experimental, subversive; the clientele is loyal and small; the building that houses the theater is frequently vintage and in disrepair. There was also, to some extent, a conflation of the type of content screened: some arthouse cinemas played grindhouse material, and vice versa [1].

   The venerable OED follows the same drift in its definition as it offers a pithy: “a film that is artistic or experimental in its primary intent.” I rather like their uncharacteristic brevity, as it gets closer to the crux of the matter. Of course we could go full contrarian and point out that any number of commercial films made today and in the past sprang from intentions that were, at least in part, artistic or experimental. Be that as it may, by some definitions an art-/grind-house movie could be anything from Herschel Gordon Lewis to Rainer Werner Fassbinder, from Ed Wood to Val Lewton to blacksploitation to film noir, all of which have their respective … merits, but in many cases fail miserably in the test of a true art film. By example, any number of horror films, from the early Thirties to the present, have arresting visuals, but does that make them art movies?

   In present writer’s opinion, no, a horror film, however visually striking, is not automatically an art film. Yes, an art movie has to look (and sound) beautiful. But there are other qualities, especially mood and atmosphere, along with a certain, frequently Euro, je ne sais quoi. But it’s mostly the visual element that makes said films arty. (As intimated above, a great music score adds immensely, thus the case for Death in Venice).

   But for our rather arbitrary definition here, for something to be an art movie it first and foremost has to stand on its own merits as a work of art: to be a great art movie a film has to be at minimum just plain beautiful to look at. It’s no coincidence then that the subject matter of some of the best art movies is art itself. And, for better or worse, worse I think, the scripts of these films often include ponderous ruminations of the nature of art, the artist, and the place of both in the scheme of things. One might add, controversially perhaps, that not all art movies are great movies, even good movies, and conversely not all great movies qualify as art movies. However, all (or most) great art movies are also great movies. Perfectly clear?

   Thus, following the format of my post on cinema’s greatest geniuses, I offer my choices of the ten best art movies ever, in chronological order, with an honorable mention section of honorable also-rans. Most of the top tier choices won’t be shockers though a couple may raise eyebrows [2]. Perhaps unfairly, this listing includes only dramatic, i.e. feature, films, not documentaries, though in some cases – experimental and animated films especially – the line gets blurred on what’s a feature versus a documentary. So, drumroll please: 

   Salome (Nazimova version)
   Orphée
   The Red Shoes
   Moulin Rouge (1952)
   Lola Montès
   Vertigo
   Last Year at Marienbad
   Juliet of the Spirits
   Death in Venice
   Frida, Naturaleza Viva

   Honorable mention: The Seventh Seal, All That Heaven Allows, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, Cries and Whispers, Meshes of the Afternoon, La Belle et la Bête, Black Narcissus, Suspiria, Snow White, Fantasia, I Walked with a Zombie, The Passion of Joan of Arc, Tokyo Story, Diva, Beauty of the Devil, Blancanieves, Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Tiefland, Le Notti Bianche, Loving Vincent, Daughter of Horror/Dementia

   [1] David Church, “From Exhibition to Genre: The Case of Grind-House Films,” Cinema Journal, v50 n4 (Summer 2011), 16-17.
   [2] For example Huston’s Moulin Rouge is included in the top ten even though it’s a mass marketed industrial product typical of its era. In this case I made an exception because the film has such an ‘arty’ flavor and it (mostly) puts Toulouse-Lautrec’s work and not his life front and center. Similarly Fellini-ophiles will scratch their heads and wonder, why Juliet and not Dolce Vita, or 8 1/2? Much as Dolce Vita is my favorite Fellini movie, for me Juliet is more visually arresting, and (this doesn’t hurt) has a more offbeat story line.
    And where, pray tell, is Orson Welles? I’m a great admirer of Welles, but it seems that all his movies, the best ones anyway, even Kane, for all their technical razzle dazzle and various other Wellesian touches,* have a (more or less) conventional storyline and Hollywood-like patina (whether made in Hollywood or not) that places them outside the realm of a true art film. Incidentally Kane is often listed as one of the great arthouse films, and here I totally concur.   
   Obviously there’s some inconsistency in my selections: some of the films chosen have a traditional storyline along with an undeniable Hollywood pedigree, and moreover did well commercially. Still, my judgment was that they had sufficient arty flavor to eke out inclusion. In any case, one of the luxuries afforded a film buff in compiling such a list is that commercial success – or lack of it – is not a factor.

     * The Lady from Shanghai is arguably Welles’s most arty film, though Mr. Arkadin ranks a close second. But even with its baroque camera angles, flitty plot and surrealistic montages, Lady fits comfortably into the noir canon as a fairly typical example. By the way not even one classic noir springs to mind as being a bonafide art film: for all their stylish visuals, noirs are driven by other factors – story, character, setting – that place them outside the art movie universe.

In praise of little-known movies

Under-the-radar gems worth a look

What are the exact parameters that define a neglected classic, or semi-classic? For some almost any obscure film noir, especially one with a cult following, would be in the running. Other tastes would lean more to sci-fi/horror or westerns. But, and much as I’m a huge fan of noir, especially the little noirs [1], and sometimes even sci-fi and westerns, to be representative and equitable I didn’t want to focus too much on one genre or historical era.

Some of the titles listed below are indeed cult classics and regularly show up at second run and arthouse theaters, and they also appear on tv programs that specialize in oddball movies. As such several have loyal if small followings. Some have been critically praised to the skies (and some have not). Admittedly with many films available in their entirety online nowadays and the constant flow of DVDs from prestige labels like Criterion and Kino Lorber, a few of the titles listed below – well, most actually – aren’t quite so obscure as they once were. Even so …

Digression: the term ‘cult’ appears more than once above, thus a word on cult films vs. little known films. A film can be underrated, unfamiliar or underappreciated, which is not quite the same as a film that generates a quasi-religious devotion among its (usually) small coterie of admirers. The titles listed below are of the former category, but as hinted above some of them indeed have become cult classics. Conversely a cult movie isn’t necessarily unknown or under-appreciated, but often is.
In any case, and most important in the context of present ruminations, the entries in this compilation are, in the writer’s humble opinion, just plain good movies, quite apart from their familiarity, lack of it, or cult status. And, in what’s dubbed full disclosure these days, most of them are personal favorites. In contrast, almost by definition a bad film can’t be undervalued or under-appreciated. To wit: there are numerous cult movies that conventional wisdom would deem as irredeemably bad (bad in the sense of being inept or amateurish in concept and execution, apart from being bad in any ethical or moral sense). An example might be the Ed Wood-like The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies. This one certainly has a dedicated, if small, following, but few among us would extol its aesthetic virtues. In other words, it’s just a ‘bad’ movie.

Thus, drumroll please:

Blast of Silence. 1961. A smoky, jazzy minor masterpiece that might well be the last gasp of the classic noir era. Blast of Silence tells the story of a hit-man’s visit to New York to take out a mid-level mob boss. Directed by and starring Allen Baron.

Chicago Syndicate. 1955. Tough guy Dennis O’Keefe goes undercover to get the goods on mob kingpin Paul Stewart. Fetching support from Abbe Lane and Allison Hayes contribute to this taut little thriller that boasts some terrific location work.

A Coffee in Berlin. 2012. CiB chronicles the picaresque travails of a ne’er-do-well slacker and his quest to find the perfect cup of coffee – any cup of coffee – in the big city. Filmed in stylish black and white and populated with lovably eccentric characters, the film serves a snapshot of life in hip Berlin ca. 2010.

Creation of the Humanoids. 1962. Blade Runner meets Forbidden Planet, with a pinch of Metropolis, in this talky sci-fi camp classic. The striking, albeit low budget, visuals and Jack Pierce’s makeup are the true stars of Humanoids. An added bonus is Dudley Manlove of Plan 9 from Outer Space as one of the replicants, who are disparagingly referred to as ‘clickers’ by the self-anointed superior humans. Directed by Wesley Barry.

Curse of the Crying Woman (La Maldición de la Llorona). 1961. Beautifully filmed at night and often described as the Mexican Black Sunday, Crying Woman follows the familiar Gothic formula while throwing in a few, decidedly Mexican, twists and tricks of its own. With references not only to witchcraft but also voodoo, vampirism and lycanthropy, the film is one of the summits of Mexican horror cinema.

Dementia (Daughter of Horror). 1955. My, but this is one strange movie. A mixture of German silent film, urban melodrama, crime thriller, and surrealist fantasy, Dementia chronicles the sinister city hallucinations of a disturbed young woman. This one's like nothing you've ever seen before: a dark night of the soul, and a long night's journey into madness. Trivia: was Orson Welles influenced by Dementia's De Chirico-like visuals of Venice, California. The visual similarities to Welles's later Touch of Evil are uncanny, so it's certainly possible.

Deux Hommes dans Manhattan (Two Men in Manhattan). 1959. The story is of little consequence as mood and atmosphere run rampant in this affectionate tribute to the Big Apple. Truly a hymn to the night. Directed by and starring Jean-Pierre Melville. With: Pierre Grasset and a mostly unknown supporting cast.

Distinto Amanecer (Another Dawn). 1943. Andrea Palma and Pedro Armendariz shine in this tense story of skulduggery in an atmosphere- and night-drenched Mexico City. Directed by Julio Bracho and filmed by cinematographic legend Gabriel Figueroa, Distinto is one of the summits of the Golden Age of Mexican cinema.

The Exiles. 1961. Great on-location work in the Bunker Hill district of L.A. highlights this tale of Native Americans trying to adjust to life in the City of the Angels.

Faubourg 36 (Paris 36). 2008. A real lightweight charmer. Faubourg is director Christophe Barratier's  affectionate recreation of the music hall scene in the between-the-wars years in Paris. Quirky characters and delightful songs combine to make this one a winner. 

Frida: Naturaleza Viva. 1984. Superior in many ways to the far better-known Salma Hayek version, this Frida features Ofelia Medina, who bears a striking resemblance to the great artist. She delivers a knockout performance.

From Hollywood to Deadwood. 1989. FHtD is an amiable neo-noir in which two second-rate private detectives are hired to find a starlet who has mysteriously disappeared. Knowing banter, a well-paced plot and colorful locales highlight this enjoyable spoof of the private eye genre. Directed by Rex Pickett.

The Furies. 1950. Western specialist Anthony Mann helms perhaps his greatest western, a sweeping psychological epic marked by serious scenery chewing compliments of Walter Huston and Barbara Stanwyck. The heart of the story is a kinky father-daughter relationship that’s part affection, part battle of wills. Huston’s final film and arguably Stanwyck’s best performance, The Furies also boasts a stellar supporting cast, most notably Wendell Cory, Blanche Yurka, Gilbert Roland, Judith Anderson and Beulah Bondi.

Hot Enough for June (Agent 8 3/4). 1964. Dirk Bogarde, Sylva Koscina and Robert Morley sparkle in this lightweight spy spoof, laden with eminently Sixties style and sensibilities.

The Hunted. 1947. Tidy little B noir that packs a punch. Tough cop Preston Foster shadows former girlfriend Belita, who's been released from prison for a crime she insists she didn't commit. Belita's acting isn't quite as good as her skating, but she makes a languorously compelling femme fatale. Her skating number is the best part of the film.

Isle of the Dead. 1945. Boris Karloff heads the credits but atmosphere is the star in this murky, less appreciated entry in the Val Lewton canon. Katherine Emery, Ellen Drew and Ernst Deutsch highlight a strong supporting cast, and Leigh Harlene’s creepy score adds to the ambience.

Les dames du Bois de Boulogne. 1945. A beautiful society woman plots revenge on a boyfriend who has jilted her for another woman. She ignores the inconvenient fact that she had already dumped him, sort of. Robert Bresson’s masterly direction and the fine cast, especially Maria Casarès as the vengeful femme fatale, lift the thin material above its pedigree. The sumptuous black & white look is really the true star of the film. 

Les Yeux sans Visage (Eyes Without a Face). 1960. All is bathed in perpetual twilight and gloomy semi-darkness in this horror thriller that's a strong candidate for the mantle of the creepiest movie of all time.

Lizzie. 1957. Eleanor Parker rocks as the multiple personality woman in this poor man’s Three Faces of Eve. Directed by Hugo Haas. 

Mickey One. 1965. Warren Beatty's strangest film is a paranoia-drenched expressionistic thriller with a strong touch of the post-noir. Ghislain Cloquet's cinematography is the true star of the film, which features offbeat on-location scenes in Detroit and Chicago as well as a strong supporting cast that includes Hurd Hatfield, Jeff Corey, Alexandra Stewart, and Franchot Tone in one of his last roles. Directed by Arthur Penn.

Murder by Contract. 1958. It’s Vince Edwards in the role of a lifetime as a quirky, ice cold contract killer. Caprice Toriel shines as the nervous, piano playing mark. Directed by Irving Lerner.

The Sound of Fury (Try and Get Me). 1950. A ruthless criminal recruits a down-on-his-luck veteran to assist him with his nefarious schemes. Unpleasant and difficult to watch, Try and Get Me is a fine film nonetheless, with Lloyd Bridges a standout as one of cinema’s most irredeemable bad guys.

The Spiritualist (The Amazing Mr. X). 1948. A rich woman (a Joan Crawford-esque Lynn Bari) searches for messages from her dead husband through the medium Alexis (Turhan Bey). The surrealistic visuals create a creepy mood in this 1940s style supernatural thriller. Indeed this modest little film may be cinematographer John Alton's masterpiece. This one just gets better with repeated viewings.

Terror in the Crypt (Crypt of the Vampire). 1964. Gothic is the word in this stylish, shadows-laden Italo-horror thriller with a subtly erotic charge. Christopher Lee is the marquee name of the cast, but it’s the ladies who steal the show, especially our two leads Adriana Ambesi and Ursula Davis. Crumbling locales, creepy music and a strong Sapphic undertow contribute to this little known gem.

Waterloo Bridge. 1931. Not to be confused with the much better known, but not as good, Vivien Leigh version of a few years later, Waterloo Bridge is a pre-Code treasure. In the performance of a career, Mae Clarke is wonderful as the working class streetwalker who captures the heart of an American serviceman in WW1 London. Directed by James Whale.

Wicked Woman. 1953. This trashy little gem features 1950s B movie legend Beverly Michaels, but Percy Helton steals the show as the most repellent lecher in cinema history. Running a brisk 77 minutes, Wicked Woman positively drips in sleaze, and it’s a small miracle the film got past the censors in the early Fifties.

Woman on the Run. 1950. Ann Sheridan hits it out of the park in this under appreciated quasi-noir that boasts a fine supporting cast, especially police inspector Robert Keith and shady journalist Dennis O’Keefe. WotR is also notable for the effective use of sinister San Francisco locales. Directed by Norman Foster.

Women in the Night. 1948. Ostensibly a thriller, this (post)WW2 propaganda film received the full pulp noir treatment from director William Rowland. German scientists plot revenge on the victorious allies by developing a cosmic ray weapon. Meanwhile, beautiful women are held prisoner as they provide 'tea and sympathy' at an officers' club. Featuring Tala Birell, Virginia Christine and especially Jean Brooks, who (more or less) reprises her persona from The Seventh Victim. Gloriously exploitative, irresistibly kitschy trash.

[1] For an exceptionally thorough perusal of under-the-radar B noirs see: Arthur Lyons, Death on the Cheap: the Lost B Movies of Film Noir, Da Capo, 2000. For the cult angle there’s Danny Peary’s three volumes on cult movies.