A commodius vicus of recirculation brings us back to Howth Castle and environs in 1921, the time of the Irish revolution, the IRA versus the Black and Tans. But make no mistake. This isn't a sentimental tale about lovers of freedom fighting against the oppressors. It's about as brutal as you can get.
And there's nothing in the way of history here -- no nonsense about Essex and Tyrone four hundred years ago. The script begins in medias res, right in the middle of the conflict. Jimmy Cagney, a surgeon, is the Commandant of the IRA and serves as a mentor to the American Don Murray, one of his medical students who is swept up by accident into the confrontation.
The movie treats the Black and Tans as a kind of Gestapo and takes pains to separate them from the more reasonable British Army. The IRA in turn comes off with far less sympathy than the Mafia did in "The Godfather" movies.
Cagney is especially hard hearted. He plays it that way all through to the film's end -- and his -- one of those guys that every war seems to attract, in which battle acquires functional autonomy. The goal is lost sight of and killing becomes a goal in itself. As I write this, the news is reporting the murder of two British soldiers in Northern Ireland. They weren't part of an army of occupation. One was an engineer. Neither was an enemy but we can be reasonably sure that for those who shot the two to death, they managed to convince themselves the murder was an act of patriotism. Cagney is that kind of guy. He stops at nothing. One scene, on the beach with the cynical Glynnis Johns, suggests that his real problem is repressed sexuality.
Don Murray is okay. He's clean-cut and handsome, and Dana Wynter at his prisoner is radiant. She's so gracile. When Cagney is about to put a bullet in her, it's no wonder that Murray does him in. It would have been like shooting a pet rabbit. But what a cast! Cyril Cusack is marvelous, as he always is. Richard Harris is fine too, as a loud-mouthed braggart. Noel Purcell is given a screen credit but his role is smaller than most of mine have been, and I got no credit at all, just minimum wage and a box lunch.
The direction is by Michael Anderson, best known, I suppose, for "Around the World in Eighty Days." As a director of thrillers like this, there is a good deal of variance in the quality of his work. There are some startling shots. A cowering figure seen from behind Cagney's spread legs. And some of the startling shots don't work at all. Cagney, mortally wounded, is seen from ground level, and when he topples over forward his face bangs into the camera as it hits the dirt, facile novelty.
Cagney was 60 years old when this was filmed and he looks a little chubby, almost cherubic, but he still manages to bend over and lurch forward when he walks, though perhaps with less lilt. His impression of an Irishman is mediocre. His best impression was always that of Jimmy Cagney, but he's not a contribution to the film's several weaknesses. He's a journeyman actor and knows his business.
Ireland would have been a good location for shooting films noir. The cities are sprawling and grimy with some cobblestone streets and a constant gray overcast, often drizzly. When I was last there, during the last outbreak which seems to have ended finally, the graffiti was all about the IRA, pronounced Eee-rah by the kids. See Carol Reed's "Odd Man Out" for a sublime example of what poetry can be wrung from such a grim setting.
And there's nothing in the way of history here -- no nonsense about Essex and Tyrone four hundred years ago. The script begins in medias res, right in the middle of the conflict. Jimmy Cagney, a surgeon, is the Commandant of the IRA and serves as a mentor to the American Don Murray, one of his medical students who is swept up by accident into the confrontation.
The movie treats the Black and Tans as a kind of Gestapo and takes pains to separate them from the more reasonable British Army. The IRA in turn comes off with far less sympathy than the Mafia did in "The Godfather" movies.
Cagney is especially hard hearted. He plays it that way all through to the film's end -- and his -- one of those guys that every war seems to attract, in which battle acquires functional autonomy. The goal is lost sight of and killing becomes a goal in itself. As I write this, the news is reporting the murder of two British soldiers in Northern Ireland. They weren't part of an army of occupation. One was an engineer. Neither was an enemy but we can be reasonably sure that for those who shot the two to death, they managed to convince themselves the murder was an act of patriotism. Cagney is that kind of guy. He stops at nothing. One scene, on the beach with the cynical Glynnis Johns, suggests that his real problem is repressed sexuality.
Don Murray is okay. He's clean-cut and handsome, and Dana Wynter at his prisoner is radiant. She's so gracile. When Cagney is about to put a bullet in her, it's no wonder that Murray does him in. It would have been like shooting a pet rabbit. But what a cast! Cyril Cusack is marvelous, as he always is. Richard Harris is fine too, as a loud-mouthed braggart. Noel Purcell is given a screen credit but his role is smaller than most of mine have been, and I got no credit at all, just minimum wage and a box lunch.
The direction is by Michael Anderson, best known, I suppose, for "Around the World in Eighty Days." As a director of thrillers like this, there is a good deal of variance in the quality of his work. There are some startling shots. A cowering figure seen from behind Cagney's spread legs. And some of the startling shots don't work at all. Cagney, mortally wounded, is seen from ground level, and when he topples over forward his face bangs into the camera as it hits the dirt, facile novelty.
Cagney was 60 years old when this was filmed and he looks a little chubby, almost cherubic, but he still manages to bend over and lurch forward when he walks, though perhaps with less lilt. His impression of an Irishman is mediocre. His best impression was always that of Jimmy Cagney, but he's not a contribution to the film's several weaknesses. He's a journeyman actor and knows his business.
Ireland would have been a good location for shooting films noir. The cities are sprawling and grimy with some cobblestone streets and a constant gray overcast, often drizzly. When I was last there, during the last outbreak which seems to have ended finally, the graffiti was all about the IRA, pronounced Eee-rah by the kids. See Carol Reed's "Odd Man Out" for a sublime example of what poetry can be wrung from such a grim setting.