There's something always odd about these B features from the 30s. Even if the tales themselves are kind of entertaining, as this one is, nothing in it seems entirely real. Conrad Nagel here doesn't humiliate himself. He's handsome and expressive, but he's obviously acting, and so are the other cast members, except for the bit players who can't act at all. The direction, the performances, the art direction, the musical score -- they all suggest that the movie we're watching is a B feature made in America.
This is passable in comedies, where naturalism isn't expected. The Marx Brothers were unimpeachable, though they had bigger budgets too. But in movies intended to be suspenseful or dramatic, the only successes seem to come when the elements of the film transcend realism and reach for the surreal. Is Humphrey Bogart convincing in "The Petrified Forest"? No, but he's magnetic and the story is taut. And no gangsters ever behaved or spoke as outrageously as Edward G. Robinson or Jimmy Cagney.
"Bank Alarm" is neither naturalistic nor surreal and so the scale is balanced at neutral and mundane. Aside from a few holes in the plot, it's all done with apparently effortless aplomb. They knew what they were doing. If someone walks towards a door, preparatory to leaving, the director and editor cut before he reaches the door. Why? Well, suppose the actor fumbled, or the door was stuck, or the wall wobbled like the cardboard it was made of. It would require a retake. So let's skip the actor reaching the door, opening it, walking through it, and closing it behind him. Too many danger points. No risks are taken with lighting a cigarette either. The dame might drop the match or something. So the scene begins with the cigarette already lighted.
This doesn't interfere much with the story's flow, though. And, in fact, all that concision peps up the pace and moves the story a little faster. There is one element that's positively painful. A number of reviewers have noted that Chester Conklin's dim "Bulb" of a photographer isn't funny. They're right. It's more than that. Every time Conklin steps on a rake and the handle whips up and bounces off the back of his head, the viewer is likely to wince more markedly than Conklin himself.
But the production IS after all professional, except for those bit parts. And if you're prepared to relax and shift your mind into neutral and let it idle, you might find this interesting enough to stick with to the predictable end.
This is passable in comedies, where naturalism isn't expected. The Marx Brothers were unimpeachable, though they had bigger budgets too. But in movies intended to be suspenseful or dramatic, the only successes seem to come when the elements of the film transcend realism and reach for the surreal. Is Humphrey Bogart convincing in "The Petrified Forest"? No, but he's magnetic and the story is taut. And no gangsters ever behaved or spoke as outrageously as Edward G. Robinson or Jimmy Cagney.
"Bank Alarm" is neither naturalistic nor surreal and so the scale is balanced at neutral and mundane. Aside from a few holes in the plot, it's all done with apparently effortless aplomb. They knew what they were doing. If someone walks towards a door, preparatory to leaving, the director and editor cut before he reaches the door. Why? Well, suppose the actor fumbled, or the door was stuck, or the wall wobbled like the cardboard it was made of. It would require a retake. So let's skip the actor reaching the door, opening it, walking through it, and closing it behind him. Too many danger points. No risks are taken with lighting a cigarette either. The dame might drop the match or something. So the scene begins with the cigarette already lighted.
This doesn't interfere much with the story's flow, though. And, in fact, all that concision peps up the pace and moves the story a little faster. There is one element that's positively painful. A number of reviewers have noted that Chester Conklin's dim "Bulb" of a photographer isn't funny. They're right. It's more than that. Every time Conklin steps on a rake and the handle whips up and bounces off the back of his head, the viewer is likely to wince more markedly than Conklin himself.
But the production IS after all professional, except for those bit parts. And if you're prepared to relax and shift your mind into neutral and let it idle, you might find this interesting enough to stick with to the predictable end.