The Horse's Mouth (1958, Ronald Neame) (Patreon)

58/100

One of those films that couldn't more plainly have come into existence solely because an actor desperately wanted to play its eccentric protagonist. (Guinness actually adapted the novel himself—his only writing credit.) The raspy voice inevitably recalls his Fagin, and he once again looks a good 20 years older than he actually was (just 44!); it's Jimson's sheer obstreperousness that dominates, though, in keeping with cinema's brusquely romantic notion of the (male) artist as beholden to his unique vision to the point where literally nothing else matters. That this particular vision mostly involves heavily stylized representations of bare feet—the gnarlier the better—makes for an excellent dry joke, and it's always good fun to watch someone torment the idle rich. But the movie kinds runs out of steam once Jimson's "patrons" return home (in a sight gag worthy of the great silent comedies, quite possibly lifted from one), perhaps because Guinness rewrote Cary's ending to make it less of a total downer. Fair bit of ham being sliced among the supporting performances, too, with Kay Walsh—another Oliver Twist alumnus, I just realized—leaning extra hard into comic working-class mannerisms. Still frequently enjoyable, especially during the middle stretch when our anti-hero's at work rather than trundling around town trying to reclaim older paintings or delegating his latest effort to students. I've grown a bit exasperated with portraits of irascibly tunnel-visioned artists, though, which makes me nervous about eventually revisiting Scorsese's segment of New York Stories. Though that does have the benefit of brevity.