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It required some self-convincing before I crossed my fingers and watched this filmed version of Emile Zola's L'Assommoir. Zola's work, I find, is nearly impossible to translate to the screen. To wit, I cite Jean Renoir's horrible adaptation of La Bete Humaine, with Jean Gabin no less and Simone Simon. Somehow film has not succeeded in capturing the dark, dismal heart of Zola's naturalisme. Read Zola's 20-volume series of novels, the Rougon-Macquart. The only question you will have is which one ends on the bleakest note. Few of his protagonists walk away on the final page, if they live to walk away at all, happily into the sunset - the exceptions being invariably the scoundrels, power-hungry Eugène Rougon, his money-grubbing brother Aristide, or the grasping retail magnate Octave Mouret. L'Assommoir, along with Germinal, La Curée and L'Oeuvre, are among the most dismal, though personally I was left most entirely depressed at the end of La Terre and the ironic La Joie de Vivre. That said, I was surprised. René Clément's Gervaise almost succeeds. It comes close to conjuring the darkness and despair and sense of futility in a Zola novel. Almost. He had a tremendous assist from Maria Schell. Her Gervaise is a truly hertbreaking characterization. She is exactly as Zola depicted her: kind-hearted, hard-working, generous, but totally lacking in the ruthlessness needed to survive - a born victim of a ruthless world. Zola would have applauded.

The screenplay changes some of the story, but not nearly as much as do other cinematic adaptations of great novels. It omits some characters, the brutal domestic violence episodes of the family Bijard. But that is to be expected. It reduces the role of Gervaise's in-laws the Lorilleux, who in the novel work rapaciously in their narrow, overheated apartment hammering out enough tiny gold chains to stretch from Paris to Marseille. It exaggerates the character of Virginie, building her into a veritble femme fatale. She, in the novel, is not the machinator of Gervaise's downfall. She is herself a victim of Lantier's parasitism, once he latches onto her household. Life and heredity are the cause of Gervaise's fated fall. Those are her nemeses. Zola himself, defending his work against critics - for the right, L'Assommoir was a left-wing attack on the virtue of the capitalist work ethic; for the left it was a right-wing slander on the noble and virtuous working class - described it as "la déchéance fatale d'une famille ouvrière dans le milieu empesté de nos faubourgs," the inevitable downfall of a working-class family in our sordid suburbs.

Two scenes are perfect evocations of the book: the party scene and the visit to the Louvre. Coupeau's long, agonizing descent into alcoholism is more drawn out and more devastating, and his death, not at home but in the hospital drunk ward in the grip of delerium tremens, is much more harrowing in the novel. The film leaves Gervaise alive. Zola did not. His story continues to her death of starvation, huddled in the tiny cubby-hole once inhabited by père Bru. That, I guess, was a sadness too far for the film. The film leaves us with a wink and a nod as little Nana flaunts out into the street with her new ribbon. Those who have read on in the series know what will be her degenerate life and miserable death once she gets to star in her own novel. For a mediocre filming of that story, try the 1955 movie with Martine Carol and Charles Boyer.

I saw Old Yeller 50+ years ago, when I was young. Before that, my parents read the book to me. Meanwhile I barely thought about it, until the National Film Registry chose it for preservation among its "culturally or aesthetically significant" honorees. Then I thought I had better watch it again (via YouTube) because for all that it had left very little impression on me since and even in childhood. I see here that many people of my generation recall the film as a wonderful formative experience - a boy and his dog - a milestone in their coming-of-age. My problem may have been that, growing up in NYC, I didn't own a dog, and moreover I was afraid of dogs. The only dog with which I had contact then was a little mutt that an uncle brought with him when he visited. It insisted on jumping up at me, harmlessly but scarifyingly, whenever it could. Since then I have had dogs, and I like them. One was even a charming Heinz 57 whose main ingredient was, like Old Yeller, golden retriever. She was adorable (RIP Freddie.) So, I saw this movie when I didn't like dogs, and it made little impression. Now I have seen it while I do like dogs. I still can't cry when Tommy Kirk shoots his canine companion.

All the way through I kept thinking, it's a handsome film but it really has only one outstanding feature, namely the presence of Dorothy McGuire. Any movie with Dorothy McGuire is worth seeing, even if you have to watch Tommy Kirk and a golden retriever. (Why, by the way, does Yeller's offspring, he having mated with what seems to be a little spotted terrier, emerge pure golden retriever? I may not recall all my Mendelian genetics, but I don't think that is likely.) All the way through I kept comparing it in my mind to The Yearling. There I did and do cry when Jane Wyman shoots the little deer. I like dogs now, so it's not a question of which species gets the ax. The Yearling is simply a much better movie, much sadder and better acted. Claude Jarman acts rings around Tommy Kirk. Who would you rather see play the father, Fess Parker or Greg Peck? The story is deeper (though really they should just have penned up the deer at night so he wouldn't eat the corn). The little boy, Bide-a-Wee doesn't play like an imbecile with baby animals, including bear cubs, he caresses them and reveres them as creatures of God. Much better. Then he dies, leaving a bereft family, Chill Wills, Clem Bevans and Margaret Wycherly (if I recall correctly). Much more human than two kids and a dog.

A word to finish up on Dorothy McGuire. She had a difficult part, to keep the mother figure from descending into sappy triviality. She pulls it off. Her first major role in film was as the title character in Claudia, a young woman who must learn the reality of love and death. Then she did Katie Nolan, a woman who must harden herself and do hard things to help her child endure the harshness of life and death - in fact that is the same character as the mother in The Yearling. Here she is a sort of Claudia grown up who has learned the lesson of Katie Nolan. Altogether, the yellow dog is OK. But I'll watch the movie for Dorothy McGuire.

I admit it. I feel a strange fascination (to borrow one of his titles) for the films of Hugo Haas, written, produced and directed by, and starring. I know. They are B movies. He could not command Hollywood's elite. But he had his stock company - Cleo Moore, Beverly Michaels, Jan Englund, Anthony Jochim - just as John Ford had his. His cinematographers, Paul Ivano, Edward Fitzgerald, were craftsmen. His work is idiosyncratic. At its best it is unique and memorable. He was a Jew who escaped the Holocaust while his brother, left behind, disappeared into Auschwitz. He was a man of European sensibility floundering in America. His stories are studies in irony. Some bear the bitter irony of Guy de Maupassant, others the tender twists of O. Henry. He puts his character, a lonely middle-aged man on the downside of life, in the way of his passionate women. He sounds a pervasive note of sadness. The devastating ending of "The Girl on the Bridge" remains for me second only, in its crushing irony, to Vincent Sherman's "The Hard Way." I don't know why, of all the independent filmmakers of the classic era, he gets the least respect.

"Hold Back Tomorrow" is one of the best and certainly the strangest of Hugo Haas' films. Who else would fashion a film almost all of which consists of two people, a man and a woman, talking? They are alone, locked in a death row cell during his last hours on earth. It is a two-person play. The camera just happens to be there. She is weary of a futile and friendless existence. He awaits an unjust fate. They contemplate death. Twenty years earlier Jean Cocteau wrote a one-person play, "The Human Voice," a monologue of despair. One actress, a suicidal woman, talks into a telephone. Francis Poulenc made it into an opera. OK. Hugo Haas was not Cocteau. But he knew the play. In "Hold Back Tomorrow" he wrote a dialogue of despair. Joe has never been able to cry. He cries. Dora has never been able to smile. She smiles. Myself, my eyes are seldom able to drop tears. They were moist.

Neither not-quite-Marilyn-Monroe Cleo Moore nor post-Shirley-Temple John Agar rose to the heights of stardom. Sometimes artists rise to the heights of artistry if they are given the material to inspire it. This material inspired artistry in Cleo Moore and John Agar. Everything, the story, the emotions, must come from them, their actions and reactions. Singers sometimes talk of being naked in the music. That is, they have only bare accompaniment that leaves them exposed. "Hold Back Tomorrow" leaves its actors exposed. They are alone before the camera. Cleo Moore never got the appreciation she deserved. She is heartbreaking when she delivers, at his request, in sadness a wan smile. John Agar makes us feel his emotional release, his catharsis, when he finally weeps after having vowed fiercely that he would never cry. In the end, Dora and Clara pray for a miracle. Hold back tomorrow is the title and the song. It is also the prayer: the hangman's rope will break; Joe will live. It won't break. We know. But maybe God will grant Joe the mercy of an illusion. Will he, in his last instant of consciousness, feel it break,dream that it has broken, and he has returned to Dora? He has already imagined it. He tells her. He has imagined the breaking of the rope. Hugo Haas hints at another ironic storyteller, Ambrose Bierce, and a cruelly ironic tale, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." Bierce's hero feels the rope break, though it doesn't. He dreams, in a last instant, that he is free. Joe enters the death chamber. The clock chimes. The dream could be another movie. If I am guilty of overthinking and overpraising a Hollywood B picture, so be it.

Hugo Haas and Cleo Moore, who played in seven of his films, came, I am sure, to form a bond - she a struggling actress from Louisiana who never made it to the A list, he a major artist in his native country now relegated to petty parts in forgettable movies. They shared a complicity born of sympathy and frustration. In "The Other Woman," their fifth collaboration, Haas played what he was, a luckless actor turned director, Cleo a struggling actress under his direction. He wrote these lines of himself: "He was a big star in Europe. Here he played bit parts, just nothing." He wrote these lines for her: "I've got more talent than all those overpublicized dames ... What did you expect, to pay my way back to Louisiana and give me five bucks for expenses?" In "Hit and Run," her last film for him, her last film for anyone, she addresses her last line to his character: "Goodbye, Gus."