I'll say one thing for crooks - they give you an honest day's work.

We’re No Angels

(1955)

Not the misbegotten Penn/De Niro remake, but the 1955 original, from the star and director of Casablanca. With that pedigree you might raise your expectations a tad too high, as this amiable yuletide tale of three Devil’s Island (would-be) escapees hanging out at Leo G Carroll’s shop and ending up “helping out” his family ambles along but rarely moves into top gear. And when it does, it’s usually because the wonderfully hissable Basil Rathbone is onscreen.

While there’s a strong blackly comic element in the mix (Peter Ustinov plays the most likeable of the convicts, and he’s a wife-murderer, Aldo Ray’s dim-witted desire for the ladies borders on the sex pest at times - even Bogart talks of beating his hosts to death; indeed, there are several expirations during the course of the tale, indirectly caused by our “heroes”, that we are not expected to bat an eyelid at), tonally this ends up feeling very different to, say, Arsenic and Old Lace. 

There, the madcap farce and crazy characters fitted with the morbidity. Here, Curtiz nigh on anaesthetises the script with his dawdling, sleepy pacing. It’s left to the cast to keep the energy levels up, and they do so spiritedly. Bogart is especially good fun, selling goods to reluctant customers and buttering up Carroll and Joan Bennett. Ustinov’s positively svelte, and while Ray lacks acting chops he makes up for it in enthusiasm.