The nominal plot has stout-hearted Colonel Loring Leigh (C. Aubrey Smith -- who else?) kicked out of the Lancers for signing an order allowing a shipment guns to find their way into the hands of a band of Indian rebels, who end up massacring 90 men at one of those Indian passes so famous in '30s movie adventure yarns. Colonel Leigh is drummed out of the army but knows he's been set up and his signature forged. Returning to England he summons his four sons -- dim bulb Oxford student Rodney (William Henry), pompous barrister Wyatt (George Sanders), shallow ladies man/aviator Chris (David Niven), and stuffy British attache Geoffrey (Richard Greene) -- in order to show them the evidence proving he was framed by an international gun cartel. He doesn't get that far. While the boys are sipping bitters in the ante room, Colonel Leigh is shot dead in his study and the evidence removed. The press claims Leigh committed suicide from his disgrace, but the boys know better and set about to find his killer and clear his name.
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And although we readily identify The Naked City as film noir today, in reality the focus of the film is slightly skewed by comparison with other classics of the genre. Here it is the police, not a P.I. or American everyman-turned-vigilante, who brings the usual assortment of noir perps to justice, and the action we follow is that of the police procedure that draws the net ever closer. The picture opens with the murder of a young woman, a blonde knockout who models dresses for a living and who was lured to the city's bright lights and flashy lifestyle like a moth to the flame, and before a single day has passed, seasoned lieutenant Dan Muldoon (Barry Fitzgerald) and his rookie, war vet partner (Don Taylor) have administered the third degree to a seedy cross-section of New York society. Some of these interested parties, you'll be surprised to learn, are not completely forthcoming; from here, we follow Muldoon, whose job is to sort the lies from the truth, and partner Halloran, who puts in a lot of legwork and follows a hunch or two of his own. The film ends in a justly famed chase sequence through the maze of the Lower East Side (this legendary immigrant neighborhood, now the home of boutiques and cafs, is captured on film as it never has been before or since) and ends in a vertiginous sequence atop a tower of the Williamsburg Bridge.
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Long before Hollywood suits thought it was a good idea to hide Freddie Prinze Jr.'s hottitude under a pair of spectacles (see Boys and Girls, if you dare), it was decided that for a change of pace, Cary Grant should be similarly four-eyed and socially reticent. And so he was cast in Bringing Up Baby as Dr. David Huxley, a nebbish scientist about to marry his icy prig of a colleague and who's been roped into wooing a rich potential donor to their museum. It's not that Grant can't play this guy, he pulls off the role just fine, but the whole enterprise seems reminiscent of covering a fine antique in layers of shellac or casting George Clooney as an antisocial computer hacker with poor fashion sense. Just because you can do it doesn't mean you should.
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The Quiet Man is as simple as its title. A man with a dark past (Wayne) returns to his homeland in Ireland to reclaim his birthright, falling in love (with local lass Maureen O'Hara) and encountering ornery locals (namely her brother) along the way.
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