D.W. Griffith in Intolerance chose all of history as the backdrop for his interwoven stories. British cinema, with becoming modesty, preferred to squeeze them onto a bus or a train. In 1932, Rome Express was the first production to be shot in the newlyexpanded Shepherd’s Bush studio, and every technical trick at the Gaumont-British company’s command was used to make the train’s journey from Paris to Rome convincing. Carriages shake; lamp tassels sway; waiters weave with food and drink. Director Walter Forde, formerly a starring comic of British silents, ingeniously keeps the images flowing, aided by the émigré cameraman Gunther Krampf (note the amusing parody of Russian montage). But what really keeps the film on the rails is its clashing and lively characters, forced by their surroundings to share the same tale of theft, murder, and illicit liaisons. One by one they enter the frame: first, Gordon Harker’s suburbanite bore, then Frank Vosper’s French police inspector, embarking on his holiday. Donald Calthrop, an actor always up to no good, eyes his surroundings suspiciously. Harold Huth looks equally guilty, as well he should, as he’s eloping with pretty Joan Barry. Hollywood film star Esther Ralston, prettier still, wants to shake off her crass publicist, but what can a public idol do? Meanwhile, hard-hearted philanthropist Cedric Hardwicke rolls up, chewing his secretary for breakfast. Then, just as the train appears full, Conrad Veidt enters British cinema, leaping onboard with an evil little laugh and a handsome sidekick, Hugh Williams, an actor expert at looking awkward. Somewhere, secreted about persons or briefcases, is the script’s “MacGuffin”, a stolen portrait painting by Anthony van Dyke. But will it reach the Eternal City in one piece?

Geoff Brown