B Movie Reviews

Political heavyweights decide that Jefferson Smith (James Stewart), an obscure scoutmaster in a small town, would be the perfect dupe to fill a vacant U.S. Senate chair. Surely this naive bumpkin can be easily controlled by the senior senator (Claude Rains) from his state, a respectable and corrupted career politician. Director Frank Capra fills the movie with Smith's wide-eyed wonder at the glories of Washington, all of which ring false for his cynical secretary (Jean Arthur), who doesn't believe for a minute this rube could be for real. But he is. Capra was repeating the formula of a previous film, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, but this one is even sharper; Stewart and Arthur are brilliant, and the former cowboy star Harry Carey lends a warm presence to the role of the vice president. Bright, funny, and beautifully paced, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is Capra's ode to the power of innocence--an idea so potent that present-day audiences may find themselves wishing for a new Mr. Smith in Congress. The 1939 Congress was none too thrilled about the film's depiction of their august body, denouncing it as a caricature; but even today, Capra's jibes about vested interests and political machines look as accurate as ever. --Robert Horton

Conceived as a television miniseries, this portrait of the epochal Motown vocal group scores as one of the most detailed re-creations of the '60s pop milieu ever filmed. Told largely through the eyes of founding member Otis Williams (Charles Malik Whitfield), The Temptations portrays its protagonists as soul Everymen whose early triumphs closely followed, and helped expand, Motown Records' emergence as "the Sound of Young America," providing an inspirational fable for black Americans.

Inevitably, of course, the story is also a cautionary tale about the price of success for both the Temps and their mentor, Motown founder Berry Gordy (Obba Babatunde). With hit records and tours, Williams and his partners grapple with drugs, alcohol, depression, jealousy, and delusions of grandeur. In particular, the galvanic lead singer David Ruffin (Leon) serves as both a focal strength and potential destroyer for the group, as his ego combines with a mounting cocaine habit to create a monster. At the same time, Gordy's eventual decision to leave his and the label's home, Detroit, for Los Angeles marks a loss of innocence for the group and their label-mates. The film provides ample insider detail about how the former Ford assembly-line worker created and controlled his unique hit factory.

Based on the biography coauthored by Williams and former manager Shelly Berger, the project gets a vital boost from behind the camera, thanks to executive producer Suzanne DePasse, herself a former Motown exec, and director Allan Arkush (Rock 'n' Roll High School). That lineage probably pulls some punches in terms of individual characters and Gordy's machinations, but it also affords The Temptations its convincing detail, as does the generous running time--a mixed blessing, due to the original two-part broadcast, which might have benefited from tightening for this video version. Giving the show its greatest kick are the group's original hits, performed and choreographed convincingly in lip-synched sequences. --Sam Sutherland

Conceived as a television miniseries, this portrait of the epochal Motown vocal group scores as one of the most detailed re-creations of the '60s pop milieu ever filmed. Told largely through the eyes of founding member Otis Williams (Charles Malik Whitfield), The Temptations portrays its protagonists as soul Everymen whose early triumphs closely followed, and helped expand, Motown Records' emergence as "the Sound of Young America," providing an inspirational fable for black Americans.

Inevitably, of course, the story is also a cautionary tale about the price of success for both the Temps and their mentor, Motown founder Berry Gordy (Obba Babatunde). With hit records and tours, Williams and his partners grapple with drugs, alcohol, depression, jealousy, and delusions of grandeur. In particular, the galvanic lead singer David Ruffin (Leon) serves as both a focal strength and potential destroyer for the group, as his ego combines with a mounting cocaine habit to create a monster. At the same time, Gordy's eventual decision to leave his and the label's home, Detroit, for Los Angeles marks a loss of innocence for the group and their label-mates. The film provides ample insider detail about how the former Ford assembly-line worker created and controlled his unique hit factory.

Based on the biography coauthored by Williams and former manager Shelly Berger, the project gets a vital boost from behind the camera, thanks to executive producer Suzanne DePasse, herself a former Motown exec, and director Allan Arkush (Rock 'n' Roll High School). That lineage probably pulls some punches in terms of individual characters and Gordy's machinations, but it also affords The Temptations its convincing detail, as does the generous running time--a mixed blessing, due to the original two-part broadcast, which might have benefited from tightening for this video version. Giving the show its greatest kick are the group's original hits, performed and choreographed convincingly in lip-synched sequences. --Sam Sutherland

City Lights is a film to pick for the time capsule, a film that best represents the many aspects of director-writer-star Charlie Chaplin at the peak of his powers: Chaplin the actor, the sentimentalist, the knockabout clown, the ballet dancer, the athlete, the lover, the tragedian, the fool. It's all contained in Chaplin's simple story of a tramp who falls in love with a blind flower girl (Virginia Cherrill). Chaplin elevates the Victorian contrivances of the plot to something glorious with his inventive use of pantomime and his sure grasp of how the Tramp relates to the audience. In 1931, it was a gamble for Chaplin to stick with silence after talking pictures had killed off the art form that had made him famous, but audiences flocked to City Lights anyway. (Chaplin would not make his first full talking picture until 1940's The Great Dictator.) After all the superb comic sequences, the film culminates with one of the most moving scenes in the history of cinema, a luminous and heartbreaking fade-out that lifts the picture onto another plane. (Woody Allen paid homage to the scene at the end of Manhattan.) This is why the term "Chaplinesque" became a part of the language. --Robert Horton

Paul Newman shines as cocky poolroom hustler "Fast" Eddie Felson in Robert Rossen's atmospheric adaptation of the Walter Tevis novel. Newman's Felson is a swaggering pool shark punk who takes on the king of the poolroom, Minnesota Fats (a cool, assured Jackie Gleason in his most understated performance). After losing big and crashing into a void of self-pity, Eddie meets down-and-out Sarah (Piper Laurie in a delicate performance), an alcoholic blue blood who's dropped into Eddie's world of dingy bars and seedy poolrooms. Eddie regains his confidence and attracts the attention of a shifty, calculating promoter, Bert Gordon (George C. Scott at his most heartless), who offers to bring Eddie into the big money--but at what cost? Rossen brings his film to life with the easy pace of a pool game, giving his actors room to explore their characters and develop into a razor-sharp ensemble. Eugen Schüfftan earned an Academy Award for his shadowing black-and-white cinematography, as did art directors Harry Horner and Gene Callahan for their deceivingly simple set designs. Even in the daylight this film seems to be smothered by night, lit by the dim glow of a bar lamp or the overhead glare of a pool-table light, an appropriate environment for this tale of one man's struggle with his soul and his self-esteem. Newman returned as an older, wiser, cagier Felson 25 years later in Martin Scorsese's Color of Money. --Sean Axmaker

Billy Wilder's noir-comic classic about death and decay in Hollywood remains as pungent as ever in its power to provoke shock, laughter, and gasps of astonishment. Joe Gillis (William Holden), a broke and cynical young screenwriter, is attempting to ditch a pair of repo men late one afternoon when he pulls off L.A.'s storied Sunset Boulevard and into the driveway of a seedy mansion belonging to Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson), a forgotten silent movie luminary whose brilliant acting career withered with the coming of talkies. The demented old movie queen lives in the past, assisted by her devoted (but intimidating) butler, Max (played by Erich von Stroheim, the legendary director of Greed and Swanson's own lost epic, Queen Kelly). Norma dreams of making a comeback in a remake of Salome to be directed by her old colleague Cecil B. DeMille (as himself), and Joe becomes her literary and romantic gigolo. Sunset Blvd. is one of those great movies that has become a part of popular culture (the line "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," has entered the language)--but it's no relic. Wow, does it ever hold up. --Jim Emerson

Now perhaps the most beloved American film, It's a Wonderful Life was largely forgotten for years, due to a copyright quirk. Only in the late 1970s did it find its audience through repeated TV showings. Frank Capra's masterwork deserves its status as a feel-good communal event, but it is also one of the most fascinating films in the American cinema, a multilayered work of Dickensian density. George Bailey (played superbly by James Stewart) grows up in the small town of Bedford Falls, dreaming dreams of adventure and travel, but circumstances conspire to keep him enslaved to his home turf. Frustrated by his life, and haunted by an impending scandal, George prepares to commit suicide on Christmas Eve. A heavenly messenger (Henry Travers) arrives to show him a vision: what the world would have been like if George had never been born. The sequence is a vivid depiction of the American Dream gone bad, and probably the wildest thing Capra ever shot (the director's optimistic vision may have darkened during his experiences making military films in World War II). Capra's triumph is to acknowledge the difficulties and disappointments of life, while affirming--in the teary-eyed final reel--his cherished values of friendship and individual achievement. It's a Wonderful Life was not a big hit on its initial release, and it won no Oscars (Capra and Stewart were nominated); but it continues to weave a special magic. --Robert Horton

Now perhaps the most beloved American film, It's a Wonderful Life was largely forgotten for years, due to a copyright quirk. Only in the late 1970s did it find its audience through repeated TV showings. Frank Capra's masterwork deserves its status as a feel-good communal event, but it is also one of the most fascinating films in the American cinema, a multilayered work of Dickensian density. George Bailey (played superbly by James Stewart) grows up in the small town of Bedford Falls, dreaming dreams of adventure and travel, but circumstances conspire to keep him enslaved to his home turf. Frustrated by his life, and haunted by an impending scandal, George prepares to commit suicide on Christmas Eve. A heavenly messenger (Henry Travers) arrives to show him a vision: what the world would have been like if George had never been born. The sequence is a vivid depiction of the American Dream gone bad, and probably the wildest thing Capra ever shot (the director's optimistic vision may have darkened during his experiences making military films in World War II). Capra's triumph is to acknowledge the difficulties and disappointments of life, while affirming--in the teary-eyed final reel--his cherished values of friendship and individual achievement. It's a Wonderful Life was not a big hit on its initial release, and it won no Oscars (Capra and Stewart were nominated); but it continues to weave a special magic. --Robert Horton