It's a well-staged play about a dozen or so nurses trapped on the Bataan peninsula in 1942, short of medicine, short of love, short of everything except Japanese bombs and the rumble of their tanks as they draw nearer. The structure, while offering nothing much new, does a good job of building suspense until the final surrender.
It's the distaff side of "Bataan", released the same year, 1943, except that "Cry Havoc" is a bit less hysterical in its hatred. The Japanese may bomb a hospital but at least none of the nurses refers to them as "bandy legged monkeys" as Robert Taylor does in "Bataan."
It's not surprising that this group is as diverse and one-dimensional as the men of "Bataan." Let's see. There is the uncultured ex burlesque dancer from New York (Joan Blondell), the empty-headed comic Southerner, the stern but fair commander (Margaret Sullivan), the tireless and compassionate older cook (Connie Gilchrest), two loving British sisters joined at the hip, and others less individuated.
Ella Raines is probably the most attractive. She's a little hoity toity at first, a magazine editor, but she stands with the others before she is it by bullets from a Japanese Zero. She has the voice and manner of a frightened child. I imagine some men would have rushed to her side, thrown their arms around her, and whispered reassurances into her ear while copping a feel.
The nurse I found most interesting was Marsha Hunt, a lanky brunette whose dished face is redeemed by a nose obviously designed by someone familiar with Fibonacci numbers. She was black listed after the war for her communist propensities. I think she argued that women should have the vote or something.
Robert Mitchum has a bit part as a wounded soldier. A nurse turns him over, he groans, "I'm all right," then he promptly rolls his head to the side and dies. Otherwise, there are no men to speak of, although there is some rather bitter competition between Sullavan and Suthern over a lieutenant in the next room, happily resolved at the end.
There are no action scenes to speak of, and the sets are dominated by one underground shelter with tiered bunks and a central table, betraying the story's stage origins.
The dialog doesn't sparkle but the suspense mounts admirably. Sullavan is taken with malignant malaria. We don't hear much (or see much) about severe illnesses among combat troops in the movies but it's an important factor. Disease killed more men in the Civil War than died in battle. And malaria is no joke. It's a parasitic infection transmitted by the bite of infected mosquitoes. Once transferred to the human body, the infection travels to the liver where it multiplies and then enters the red blood cells. Inside the red blood cells the parasites multiply rapidly until the cells burst, releasing even more parasites into the blood stream. The cells burst at about the same time and cause the attacks. The damage to the brain and other organs can lead to coma and death. The disease still kills more than half a million people a year. We'll return to the movie as soon as I finish this surgical scrub.
Anyway, the last scene is predictable. The surviving nurses and the compassionate cook leave the bunker with their hands up. It's the last we see of them. The whole story isn't badly done.
The title is from Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar": Caesar's spirit will return and "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." Two movie titles right there.
It's the distaff side of "Bataan", released the same year, 1943, except that "Cry Havoc" is a bit less hysterical in its hatred. The Japanese may bomb a hospital but at least none of the nurses refers to them as "bandy legged monkeys" as Robert Taylor does in "Bataan."
It's not surprising that this group is as diverse and one-dimensional as the men of "Bataan." Let's see. There is the uncultured ex burlesque dancer from New York (Joan Blondell), the empty-headed comic Southerner, the stern but fair commander (Margaret Sullivan), the tireless and compassionate older cook (Connie Gilchrest), two loving British sisters joined at the hip, and others less individuated.
Ella Raines is probably the most attractive. She's a little hoity toity at first, a magazine editor, but she stands with the others before she is it by bullets from a Japanese Zero. She has the voice and manner of a frightened child. I imagine some men would have rushed to her side, thrown their arms around her, and whispered reassurances into her ear while copping a feel.
The nurse I found most interesting was Marsha Hunt, a lanky brunette whose dished face is redeemed by a nose obviously designed by someone familiar with Fibonacci numbers. She was black listed after the war for her communist propensities. I think she argued that women should have the vote or something.
Robert Mitchum has a bit part as a wounded soldier. A nurse turns him over, he groans, "I'm all right," then he promptly rolls his head to the side and dies. Otherwise, there are no men to speak of, although there is some rather bitter competition between Sullavan and Suthern over a lieutenant in the next room, happily resolved at the end.
There are no action scenes to speak of, and the sets are dominated by one underground shelter with tiered bunks and a central table, betraying the story's stage origins.
The dialog doesn't sparkle but the suspense mounts admirably. Sullavan is taken with malignant malaria. We don't hear much (or see much) about severe illnesses among combat troops in the movies but it's an important factor. Disease killed more men in the Civil War than died in battle. And malaria is no joke. It's a parasitic infection transmitted by the bite of infected mosquitoes. Once transferred to the human body, the infection travels to the liver where it multiplies and then enters the red blood cells. Inside the red blood cells the parasites multiply rapidly until the cells burst, releasing even more parasites into the blood stream. The cells burst at about the same time and cause the attacks. The damage to the brain and other organs can lead to coma and death. The disease still kills more than half a million people a year. We'll return to the movie as soon as I finish this surgical scrub.
Anyway, the last scene is predictable. The surviving nurses and the compassionate cook leave the bunker with their hands up. It's the last we see of them. The whole story isn't badly done.
The title is from Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar": Caesar's spirit will return and "Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." Two movie titles right there.