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Behind Locked Doors (1948)
''You came here to be cured. You're more likely to be killed.''
Ambitious reporter, Lucille Bremer engages the services of rookie private investigator, Richard Carlson, revealing a cunning plan to have him admitted to a private sanitarium, where she believes that corrupt ex judge and wanted felon, Herbert Heyes is in hiding.
Ushered into a spartan three bedder, Carlson encounters one patient who paints a bleak, stark picture of life within the walls and an 'activity' programme which is nothing more than menial, degrading skivvying. A man plagued by horrific night terrors completes the line up. Not until Manster's version of 'Over Under Sideways Down' would screams of such torturous, bloodcurdling intensity be heard again!
Cynical, sinister attendant, Douglas Fowley delights in taunting the residents. His chief target is confined and deranged ex boxer, Tor 'Plan 9' Johnson, upon whom he callously imposes his Pavlov's Dog, at the sound of the bell routine. Armed with the world's biggest bunch of keys, he randomly delivers a painful thwack to anyone who crosses him, being especially brutal towards a juvenile, who commits the heinous crime of tearing paper. Finally, here comes the judge and his puppet, Tom Brown Henry, the spineless quack who runs the joint.
An appreciable cut above the usual Poverty Row, low budget 'B' movie fodder. Almost every scene takes place in darkness, semi-darkness or bathed in shadow. 'Behind Locked Doors' occasionally raises a smile via a few oddball characters and acerbic one liners ''.... Celebrate by carrying you over the threshold?'' ''Oh no. It's such a nice day, I think I'll walk.'' Largely, it portrays a culture of cruelty, oppression and fear, being vented on vulnerable people in desperate need of care and support. As such, it makes the average prison movie look like 'Summer Holiday'. An early directorial triumph for Oscar? ? Boetticher, who hit his stride in the next decade with a number of superior westerns starring Randolph Scott.
Bury Me Dead (1947)
Grave Misfire
June Lockhart has the dubious privilege of being an onlooker at her own funeral. She then proceeds to navigate the tricky path of revealing that she is still alive, whilst probing into the identity of the charred remains buried in her place.
What had the potential to be a taut, dark murder mystery, simply implodes into an implausibly jaunty, 'Oh, you're alive!' caper. The humour is never sufficiently strong or consistent to transform 'Bury me Dead' into black comedy and the frequent, distracting flashbacks come across as the antics of a director fixated by a new toy that he can't resist playing with.
Belatedly, there is at least the contrivance of mounting tension, as dithering detective, Charles Lane launches into an 'I didn't get where I am today' style criminology lecture instead of immediately responding to a rapidly escalating, life threatening situation.
This special deluxe edition comes with ultra low definition blurry print, numerous missing frames (probably lurking down the back of a sofa near you) plus...... a SNAP! CRACKLE! And POP! Soundtrack, occasionally veering towards pneumatic drill territory! Aah, they don't make 'em like that anymore.
Step Down to Terror (1958)
Cyclepathic!
Immediately recognizable as a remake of Hitchcock's 'Shadow of a Doubt'. Charles Drake adequately replicates Joseph Cotten's initially bland, innocuous deportment, but the movie, trimmed down in running time and the shedding of several characters, a significant step down from the original, looks formulaic and becomes increasingly defined by Drake's predictable terror by numbers performance.
1) Becoming worryingly irritated and aggressive over an engraved ring. 2) Unconvincingly finding a lame excuse to tear a page from the local newspaper. 3) Colleen Miller's young son receiving a new bicycle puts a drastic spoke in his wheel, sparking bitter memories relating to a cycling incident from his own past. Shortly afterwards he 'accidentally' reverses his car over the gleaming dream machine, instantly reducing it to scrap metal. 4) When the family are selected to partake in a survey involving interviews and photographs, he stays out of sight, retiring to his bed with a mystery illness. 5) The manic, rambling 'world is a jungle' rant, populated only by two faced, rotten to the core, money grabbing hypocrites, hiding behind a wafer thin veneer of respectability.
Colleen Miller takes on the Teresa Wright role of the astute and dutiful family member, who rumbles that there is something monstrous; a dangerous phony lurking behind Drake's outwardly avuncular facade. A remake that need never have been remade. As such, it is rarely more than mildly interesting and moderately entertaining. When it comes to suspense, Hitchcock holds all the cards.
The Intimate Stranger (1956)
Welcome to Newcastle.....GEORDIE FREE ZONE!
His roving eye has cost hot-shot producer, Richard Basehart a Hollywood career. Quietly rebuilding his life with an executive position in the British film industry and happily married to the boss's daughter, this self confessed 'jerk' is keen to put his infamous past behind him.
Fine......until a whole slew of letters from an unknown woman start arriving on his desk. The contents are of such intimate and revealing detail that he begins doubting his own mental fortitude, with the possibilities of amnesia and split personality tearing him apart. With support from dutiful wife, Faith Brook, he travels to the Newcastle address from which the correspondence was sent, hoping to resolve the issue.
Despite the movie's intriguing angle, it never becomes taut, fraught, fractious or suspenseful and the nearest we come to anything haunting or mysterious is the portrayal of Newcastle, one of the most vibrant, buzzing and friendly places in the U. K. as a virtual ghost town. Landlady, Grace Denbeigh - Russell converses in typical BBC, until she occasionally remembers to flatten a vowel here and there. Police sergeant, David Lodge clearly has no intention of attempting the local dialect and when Basehart almost winds up with tyre tracks down his back, having narrowly avoided being hit by a cyclist, the rider dismisses him in pure Cockney. After confronting the woman in question (Mary Murphy) the pair contrive to go for a drink in Tyneside's deadest pub.
This is where 'Finger' practically falls flat on it's pathetic face. No pride, passion, purpose, attention to detail or even the vaguest nod in the direction of authenticity. Ultimately, just about salvaged by a fairly interesting studio finale. I'm normally a fan of films about film, film making and television, but this movie is definitely the exception to the rule. If Basehart even watched the finished product, it was probably enough to send him running to the hills, or voyaging to the bottom of the sea!
The Man I Love (1946)
Ida hoped for a bit more action
The prospect of a cheesy lounge singer about to croon through a schmaltzy ballad is an appropriate cue to send me reaching for the fast forward button, swiftly heading on to the real nitty gritty.
With the wonderful Ida Lupino cast as a sassy singer and Bruce Bennett as a jaundiced jazz pianist, the musical numbers (including a decent jazz instrumental) prove to be the glue which hold this movie together.
Much of the narrative unfolds in the club run by handsome and he knows it, Robert Alda. Vile and vacuous in equal measure, for him, every dame is just another dame in an ocean of just another dames.
Ultimately, 'The Man I Love' plays out as a reflective mood piece, rather than a high octane razzle of gunfire and flying fists. A story of fractured fortunes, broken (or at best strained) relationships and unfulfilled dreams. Characters scarred by bitter memories and the frustration of striving for something that was always tantalizingly out of reach. Even the presence of recently born twins and the arrival of Christmas, does little to raise the barometer, leaving festive cheer at a premium.
With Ida's two sisters (Andrea King and Martha Vickers) dodgy brother (John Ridgely) plus neighbours (Dolores Moran and Don McGuire) all having issues to confront, the movie takes on the persona of an ensemble piece, with lives becoming inextricably intertwined. Though there are pockets of joy and redemption, a pervasively portentous, low key tone prevails, with the spectre of personal heartbreak never far away.
Undercover Girl (1950)
'Moocher' the mini
Bent copper, Regis Toomey learns the hard way that it's too late to say that he's awfully sorry and that striking up a deal with a drugs cartel was a serious error of judgement on his part, but, as a gesture of good will he is prepared to return the money. His screen moments come to an abrupt halt with a bodged attempt at a face saving arrest.
The gang will ultimately discover that statuesque, resolute Alexis Smith (Toomey's daughter) is made of sterner stuff, as she goes undercover, with more than a little personal interest at stake.
Taking a seedy apartment, she steadily weaves her way in, targeting weakest link, gaunt, jittery 'Moocher' (Royal Dano). Further probing brings her into contact with crooked quack (Edmon Ryan), smarmy hot-shot (Gerald Mohr) and a hatchet man in a neck brace, who from the front resembles someone who had a horrific bike crash and the handlebars wedged in his mouth!
Routine in certain respects, but notable for the fact that it is the poised and striking Smith who is taking all the risks, while the increasingly smitten Scott Brady strives, from the sidelines, to ensure that she is still around for him to be smitten by, when everything hits the fan. Finally choosing to pull her from the firing line, the movie looks to be heading for a Horlicks rather than bourbon finale, but the feisty, determined cop proves she is more than capable of making her own cocaine decisions!
Not a classic, but a stimulating watch for noir fans with stabbings, shootings, fatal falls from windows/down stairwells, broken necks.....and pipes.
Relentless (1948)
Young's horse. MacLean's hoarse
Peaceable drifter, Robert Young would never have imagined in his worst nightmare that seeking refuge for his heavily pregnant mare would result in pursuit by a posse under accusation of a triple murder. Furthermore, those who could verify his innocence are either dead or.....er...horses! Fortunately, he goes on outsmarting hard nosed sheriff, Willard Parker and his give him a fair trial......then hang him mentality, as he desperately searches for the one man (Barton MacLean) who could clear his name. Fate smiles on Young in the form of a flowering friendship and affinity with Margeurite Chapman and her mobile 'Homebase' store.
Throw in sly, scheming Akim Tamiroff and his lugubrious brain cell deficient sidekick Mike Mazurki, with the scent of gold in their nostrils and you have the makings of a superficially stark, dark and pretty gritty western - but offset by an unusually soft centre. Young's distress and outrage at the mindless cruelty inflicted upon his horse, the care and protection he gives to the colt and its surrogate burro, create an unexpectedly heartwarming underbelly, which never becomes cloying or sentimental. Whilst Young and Chapman generate an unquestionably appealing on screen chemistry, in this rewarding and unconventional movie.
Charley Varrick (1973)
Turns ugly, like Varrick-ose veins
Seldom listed as a neo noir, but, dark and dense, taut and twisted, building layer upon layer of action, tension and violence, Charley Varrick is arguably the real deal.
Criticisms of this highly rated film have generally been levelled at the unseemly nature of the characters. Matthau (in one of his best roles) is strictly small time. A bank robber, who, while not cold hearted, adopts a largely detached position on loss of life, viewing it as collateral damage, an occupational hazard, is suddenly way out of his depth sitting on a vast cache of Mafia money. Youthful, trigger happy sidekick Andrew Robinson lacks the maturity and self-control to lie low, becoming an increasing liability to his experienced partner. Joe Don Baker is as callous and sadistic a hitman as ever disgraced the screen. He enjoys nothing better than presiding over a slow, painful, torturous death, while calmly smoking his pipe. Slimy John Vernon, double crossing Sheree North and Uncle Tom Tully and all complete the rogues gallery.
Where Varrick (both film and character) hit the jackpot, stems from Matthau's crude trailer park lifestyle and grubby crop dusting cover, which generate at least a modicum of empathy. It's what he represents, the underdog, the lo-fi maverick, the struggling independent taking on the majors. Out of his league, but at least the best of a bad bunch. Few actors could have made this work. A combination of familiarity from successful comedies, his rubbery, lived in features and on screen persona give his character an unlikely likeability. Consequently 'Varrick' continues to be an essential credential on Matthau's illustrious C. V.
This Happy Breed (1944)
Three weddings and a bronchitis kettle
This happy breed move into their East London (less than) home for heroes during 1919 and proceed to spend the next twenty years bickering, squabbling and carping like fishwives over everything from crystal sets to buttering the cat's paws! The women settle their differences and face down life's challenges over a nice cup of tea, while wartime buddies, Robert Newton and Stanley Holloway, irrevocably scarred both mentally and physically, gamely soldier on, proudly displaying their hard earned medals, celebrating their battlefield experiences and consuming Johnnie Walker to the point where most of the soda misses the target.
Noel Coward's astutely observed twixt the wars view of family life bristles with the confidence and expectation of the roaring twenties: Sound movies, funfairs, the wireless and the 'Charleston', soon brought crashing down amidst the General Strike, the depression and the spectre of Nazi Germany. A painfully raw deal for the surviving family members and friends of those who never returned and many who did, left coping with an amputation or other life changing injury. Whilst trauma and shell shock went barely acknowledged.
The resonance of the title, despite the turbulence of both the period and domestic life, lies in the indomitable spirit, the unquenchable optimism, perpetual hope and aspiration of the characters involved.
Embellished by beautiful colour photography and incisive camera work, an especially moving and memorable scene occurs when news breaks of a family tragedy. Newton and Johnson are out of shot, but despite their absence, a palpable sense of grief pervades. Seconds later, the visibly shaken couple wander in from the garden, ashen and defeated.
The repetitious quibbling is enough to drive even the movie's most ardent fan dangerously close to 'put a sock in it!' territory. Despite this and an unquestionably dated look, 'Happy Breed' remains an important film, an enduring document of family life between the wars, a testament to a truly resilient generation of extraordinary ordinary people.
The Rossiter Case (1951)
As riveting as rising damp
Clement McCallin is wholly convincing, as he hits the panic button, feverishly digging through his coat pockets and lining in a desperate bid to locate a missing package. An equally thorough search of his car leads to the inevitable conclusion that the item is lost. His ensuing horror is almost palpable. Unfortunately, at a later stage, he's not quite so impressive as the plastered pub patron, lurching around, while slurring demands for another whiskey.
Ironically, these two scenes set the tone for a jarringly uneven movie. Severely paralysed Helen Shingler is determined to both recover and hold on to philandering hubby, McCallin, rapidly being drawn into the clutches of femme fatale, Sheila Burrell. The picture gives us a snatch of soap opera here and a taste of mannered deportment there, before a surprisingly dark, dramatic twist dissolves into a torrent of rambling, sentimental twaddle, accompanied by suitably syrupy strings.
Where movies like 'Rossiter' score most points is providing an insight into the prevailing attitudes and tenets of affluent post war Britain, where elements of Edwardian society remain in tact: The servants, housekeepers and cooks. The staunch, unwavering view towards 'the done thing' and 'not the done thing.' The eye-popping, jaw dropping response to the merest whiff of scandal. Throw in a variable print, a few missing frames and you pretty much have the .....er...complete package.
Ruthless (1948)
Toothless
Art created a lifetime ago, primarily for entertainment value, still finds a receptive audience today. Indeed some movies from the golden era seem to improve with age. 'Ruthless', due in part to its over generous running time, is a film which now looks dated, stodgy and tired.
Poor Robert Anderson, barely has he recovered from the painful, unjustified thwack 'round the ear 'ole delivered by H. B. Warner in 'It's a Wonderful Life' than he's receiving a similarly stinging blow from Mum, Joyce Arling, for arriving home in sodden clothes. Finding himself a hero after saving little Martha from drowning, a life of privilege beckons from her parents, during which time he morphs into Zachary Scott, but the seeds of avarice, self importance and entitlement have been sown. Success simply fuels an insatiable appetite for more and at any cost. Anyone who stands in his way, having been greeted with a Syd Barrett style mute psychotic stare, whether friend, family, foe or fiance is walked over with such disdain that all who encounter him choose to buy clothes from Carpetright.
Proficiently acted and undertaken with an undeniable professionalism 'Ruthless' becomes increasingly bogged down, pedestrian and wordy, the kind of movie you can pop out to make a coffee and return without having missed....well, anything, really. Scott will still be ruining someone's life - or wife with the same tactless, subtle as a flying brick, insensitivity.
Punctuated by elongated flashbacks, the movie dawdles to a climax, which despite an ironic twist evokes little more than shoulder shrugging resignation. The polar opposite of the previously mentioned 'It's a Wonderful Life', 'Ruthless' simply illustrates the abject futility of a life dominated by greed and self interest.
Widely regarded as a film noir, it feels more like the precursor to the T. V. soaps of later decades, with Scott as a prototype J. R.
Town on Trial (1957)
I did it my way!
Supt. Mike Halloran (John Mills) is his own man, but his uncompromising, single-minded, my way or the highway approach rankles with some of his colleagues, whilst causing indignation, consternation and for all we know....constipation amongst the well to do, oooh so respectable residents of a small, affluent Surrey town, when he arrives to solve a murder case.
Man magnet, Magda Miller is the victim and several suspects fall under the eye of the meticulous Mills. Drunken, womanizing Derek Farr, who has made poor Maureen Connell's life a misery, claims to have been a wing commander during the war, but Mills reveals that the closest he ever came to a Spitfire was probably an Airfix Kit from Woolworths! Respected elderly doctor and pillar of the community, Charles Coburn is exposed as little more than a quack with a knack.
Fearing that the killer may strike again, Mills tightens the screw, incorporating unorthodox methods which draw a negative response from his superiors and further raise the hackles of the locals. How dare this abrupt, intrusive copper disrupt their cushy tennis club evenings and gawlf club weekends, playing havoc with their smug, money talks community - as detective Harry Locke discovers, ripped off for a guinea (about £100 today) for admission to a tennis club dance, where the musical attraction is Harry Fowler and his Southern League Jazz Combo. Even romantic interest, Barbara Bates grows weary of his arrant inflexibility.
Mills' unflagging determination to nail his man leads to a nail biting finale of Hitchcockian proportions. A suitably edgy climax to a decent, serviceable thriller. Whilst the inclusion of Bates, who occasionally slips into an American twang and Coburn (who doesn't) adds a fashionable U. S. slant to a movie, which has an already distinctly noirish flavour.
The Secret of Convict Lake (1951)
Mmm.....it's a bit chilly. Better wrap up warm!
Several horses make a cameo appearance. There are passing references to farming and livestock, but the first half of this strangely intriguing mood piece plays out like a prison break movie set in the frozen, rather than wild west.
Five starving convicts arrive at an isolated settlement, begging (through chattering teeth) for food, shelter and medical help from the all female, heavily armed, residents. Picture 'The Desperate Hours' in reverse. Of the desperate, disparate escapees, rugged Glenn Ford appears to possess a modicum of depth and a hint of decency, clearly absent from leering, sneering Zachary Scott, superb as the outlaw with more than a sneaky streak, driven by greed and lust, who doesn't know the meaning of the word remorse.....and probably about 10,000 other words come to that! Richard Hylton is sick note with a deranged slant, affable Cyril Cusack seems happy to be along for the ride and Jack Lambert does his usual proficient job, as head of department for 'If Looks Could Kill'.
With a pervading, ominous tone, themes of avarice, revenge and romance, with Gene Tierney centre of attraction, begin to develop, whilst stern, matriarchal Ethel Barrymore strives to keep a lid on the ever evolving situation. The return of the men brings a semblance of more routine western stylings to the narrative, but, spurred across the finishing line by its strong cast and a few perceptive plot twists, 'The Secret of Convict Lake' remains a bleak, inherently unconventional offering. Think not, Half Man Half Biscuit, but half noir, half western and that's pretty much the territory occupied by this absorbing and atmospheric picture. An undiscovered gem no longer. The secret's out!
The Lost Weekend (1945)
Deceit, denial, delusion, desperation, degradation, delirium
Incisive camera work pans the New York skyline, focusing upon an apartment window, from which a bottle dangles on a string. Within minutes, it is evident that the bottle has Ray Milland dangling on a string. Ten days without a drink, he's irascible, irritable, argumentative and manipulative. His petulance ensuring that the planned week-end away with brother (Phillip Terry) is also out of the window. The exasperated Terry and Milland's girlfriend (Jane Wyman) depart, confident that he is in an alcohol free zone.
Milland's bad vibrations, theremin accompanied search for drink produces the next best thing.....a ten dollar bill. Thus commences his painful, degenerative booze dependent week-end. Through the bottom of various receptacles he ruefully reflects on his nascent career as a writer. A promising first effort followed by a series of false starts and aborted projects. Finally, his passionate desire to write a novel. A tour de force, simply entitled 'The Bottle', to be a candid, no holds barred, warts 'n' all revelation of his own personal battle with and triumph over, the demon alcohol. Unfortunately, when sober, he's bankrupt of self belief. Heavily intoxicated, he imagines he's on a hot streak, with vivid clarity of mind. In reality, even ' Once upon a time there was this bottle,' would be beyond him!
Flashback brings brief comic relief to the screen. His first meeting with lovely, one in a million, Wyman, after a cloakroom ticket mix up. His avoid curve persona soon surfacing, when he doesn't have the bottle (no pun intended) to meet her parents, ultimately admitting that like a football league table before the big kick off, his life is 'zero, zero, zero.'
As it progresses, the movie almost steps outside of itself, becoming a lurid study of alcoholism and the horrors of addiction in general. An increasingly dishevelled, unshaven Milland suffers the indignity of not knowing what day it is, the degradation of petty crime and finally hospitalization.
It makes for harrowing, torturous viewing, but remains as powerful, gripping and relevant as at the time of its release. On the earlier 'Double Indemnity', director Billy Wilder had worked closely with Raymond Chandler, who had his own drink related issues. Previously, the drunk was often a comical character, a figure of ridicule. 'The Lost Weekend' presents a brave, brutal and intimate insight into Milland's nightmare. For his own part, the actor responds with a remarkable performance, coming across ever more as a victim, a vulnerable individual, striving to be understood, frantically struggling to confront and overcome his drink fuelled trials and tribulations.
The Thief (1952)
Silent noir....not wholly noir
Bearing comparison with 'Lady in the Lake', 'The Thief' falls into the category of brave, interesting, but only partially successful experiment. Truncated to a thirty minute T. V. drama it would almost certainly have been compelling, but stretched to feature film length the project loses momentum and the idea wears thin.
Dialogue is central to film noir's oevre; acerbic one liners, deadpan humour, street punk attitude and cynical reflection. Consequently, 'The Thief' winds up looking like a cream cake, without the cream. Paradoxically, the prevailing silence develops into a source of morbid fascination, ultimately detracting from the plot of national betrayal in the atomic age. Furthermore, Milland on mute lacks the expansive facial expressions to meet the challenge full on. When he's not flabbergasted, he's exasperated. When he's neither, he's pensive, perturbed or just plain cheesed off......and don't even think about him cracking a smile! Indeed, he often portrayed agitated, troubled types (The Big Clock, Dial M for Murder) and most memorably 'The Lost Weekend', echoes of which occur, when he reaches for a stiff drink.....or six and when the confines of his seedy apartment drive him to the brink of delirium.
When the phone rings, he never answers. When he rings out, no one picks up. Everything revolves around tatty bits of paper casually dropped on sidewalks, into handbags, left discreetly in public places and discarded with equal discretion. Though on one occasion Milland hangs around a canal lock long enough for a string of barges to have passed through, before surreptitiously dropping the scrap of paper into the drink. Why not just flush it down the can?
At the point where he comes face to face with an alluringly pretty girl in his apartment block, the movie seems to be screaming out for some enticing vocal content. Unfortunately, the eyes don't quite have it.
The format would have worked to greater effect had the movie been outstanding, inventive or just memorably oddball in other regards, but, truth is, it's just (quietly) unexceptional, even unconvincing in spots. The traffic accident causing the death of an essential link in the paper chain looks clumsy and the names of the cargo vessels on the shipping list belong on the boating lake at a theme park. What happened to 'American Manufacturer' and 'Eugene Lykes'? 'The Thief' amounts to more than a gallant failure, but lacks sustainability and never quite hits the mark. In the final analysis, it goes without saying that........
36 Hours (1953)
Wind up working in a soup kitchen
The muddle-headed yarn of U. S. airman, Dan Duryea, ironically being smuggled across the Atlantic, with 36 hours to resolve his marital problems, which rapidly transforms into 36 hours to prove he did not kill wife, Elsie Albiin.
Framed for her murder, he has in his favour the fact that the police believe that he is in the States, plus friendship and support from kindly, charitable soup kitchen worker, Ann Gudrun. She too will fall captive to ruthless diamond smuggler, John Chandos, while Duryea deals with distraught, frantic, knife wielding, Kenneth Griffith, who had a teenage crush on his late wife. The random, intermittent use of flashback does little to enhance the already addled narrative.
The low point occurs with a harebrained, imbecilic showdown in which all concerned both hold, then contrive to lose possession of a gun (while Griffith wades in with his knife!). Trigger hapless, rather than trigger happy!
Only real bright spot, a typically slimy, simpering, lying through his teeth performance from Harold Lang, a bad grammar consultant, specializing in double negatives.
Though it would be significantly more edifying, edited to 36 minutes, at least the original title did exactly what it said on the tin. Why change it?
The Tattered Dress (1957)
When words speak louder than actions
It is, after all, 1957, the badly ripped garment of the title, reveals only that Elaine Stewart has been the victim of a sexual assault by Floyd Simmons and that she is clearly in.... distress.
Fuming hubby, Phillip Reed, soon settles the issue, with the hapless Simmons winding up on the wrong end of a bullet. Cue for the timely entrance of whip smart, fast talking defence lawyer, Jeff Chandler. A crumbling marriage to Jeanne Crain aint gonna stop HIM from winning a case. In another life he could have made his fortune selling refrigerators to Eskimos and is given a wide berth by any donkey that values its hind legs!
Sharp as a tack, he turns sharp as a cushion sheriff (Jack Carson) into mincemeat on the stand, winning both the battle of the gabble and the gavel plus an acquittal along the way. Barely half way through and this sultry drama, with it's poolside culture resembles an undress rehearsal for 'Anatomy of a Murder'....until...
The bewildered Chandler is framed, accused of bribing juror, Gail Russell and the previously intimidating lawyer finds himself the victim of intimidation from the small, closely knit community. Meanwhile, the chunky, chirpy sheriff begins doing evil by numbers; from the giveaway glint in the eye, to bully boy lover, to murderous menace. All carried out with a superficially nonchalant, 'Who me?' persona, which cuts no ice with the astute Chandler for one second.
Shot in Cinemascope and undeniably voguish, this Rock'n'Roll era noir appears to be consciously anticipating the sixties, but much of the intended impact is lost in a wordy, sluggish execution, culminating in Chandler's soul bearing speech. An inordinate outpouring of Shakespearian proportions. What had the potential to be a taut, tense thriller, becomes an unduly padded, plodding, ponderous and over indulgent triumph of style over substance.
Desperate (1947)
Six minutes to midnight......"and I ran out of cream for the coffee!"
It's all a bit rudimentary at the outset. Incurable romantic, Steve Brodie is about to celebrate four months of wedded bliss to lovely Audrey Long with flowers and a cake, boasting four candles (not fork handles!), when an unexpected phone caller urgently requests him to haul a shipment of 'perishables'. The fifty dollar payout, sufficient to put the party on hold.
Comforted by the presence of familiar Raymond Burr, discomforted to find the 'perishables' are furs and wholly alarmed when Burr's trigger happy kid brother produces a rod, Brodie attempts to make a rapid exit, turning the heist into a monumental exercise in cock-up artistry, with a shot cop and Burr's brother arrested.
Despite a brutal beating, Brodie manages to escape and taking Long along, is on the run. Pursued by both cops and felons, he is a marked man. Indeed, judging by his face - a VERY marked man. Desperate to prove his innocence, he decides to commit a few crimes: Stealing a jalopy, (the kind of heap that even Laurel and Hardy would have rejected) and leaving portly sheriff, Dick Elliott, unconscious.
It all culminates in an entertaining BANG! BANG! Finale, preceded by a protracted, tense and almost surreal clock watching sequence.
With 'Raw Deal' and 'Side Street', Anthony Mann would make more enduringly memorable noirs, but, with it's sadistic tone, ominous use of light and shadow, plus a pervading sense of threat, 'Desperate' remains a solid, meat and potatoes thriller, from a smart, perceptive director, honing his craft and developing his skills.
Robbery Under Arms (1957)
No chance of deodorant under arms!
It's....er, a western. A British made western......set in Australia.
Furrowed and weathered, Laurence Naismith has spent his years on the wrong side of the law, leading the life of the quickening heartbeat with each approach of horses hooves and every knock on his front door. Hardly a role model, elder son Ronald Lewis is cut from the same cloth, yearning for adventure, contrasting with David McCallum's more sensitive, responsible disposition. Throwing in their lot with notorious Captain Starlight (Peter Finch), they steal cattle and rob a coach, before the lure of romance prompts the pair to go straight as gold prospectors. The past, it seems, is never far behind. Once a marked man, always a marked man.
Re-setting the Wild West in Australia was an interesting idea and like most 'westerns' of the era it's shot in vivid colour. Much like a click and collect supermarket shop during the Pandemic, its full of substitutions: The Outback for The Nevada Desert, stealing for rustling, Bush ranger for outlaw, kangaroo for coyote, troopers for sheriff's posse. Unfortunately, Peter Finch, Laurence Naismith and Ronald Lewis are NO substitute for Lee Marvin, Richard Boone and Jack Elam.
'Robbery Under Arms' is devoid of a clear hero figure, the single bastion of goodyism. Just an endless carousel of faceless troopers. It's little more than a curio, a period piece. The kinda movie that's worth watching.....ONCE!
The Harder They Fall (1956)
Bogie canvasses for the guys on the canvas
Steely, cynical sports writer, Humphrey Bogart, never fully appreciates the gag about his paper folding. No matter! Ruthless promoter, Rod Steiger, is keen to engage his services as press agent for young, Argentinian heavyweight discovery, Mike Lane.
A giant of a man, he looks a million dollars in the ring, but with a lightweight punch and a glass jaw it's quickly apparent that he IS a million dollars - green and easily crinkled! Sluggish, gauche and placid, he's more likely to complain about the shorts chafing his undercarriage than landing a serious glove on anyone.
Abrasive, fast talking Steiger, supported by a bunch of similarly, loud mouthed, coercive hot air merchants, sets up a string of fixed fights to project the gullible Lane into the public glare. As the title indicates, the facade will eventually reach its sell-by date. It's only a matter of time, before Lane meets his nemesis and winds up with a face like a raspberry yoghurt. Outside the ring, there's surprisingly little violence, compensated for by plenty of raised voices, plus several pushing, shoving and lapel grabbing moments.
Bogie grows painfully aware of the cruel, heartless manipulation and exploitation suffered by the docile, untalented young man, who, when those controlling him have finished cremating, rather than cooking the books, will be left (probably brain damaged) and almost as penniless as when he stepped off the boat.
Steiger's acting ability shines throughout. It's hard to imagine anyone doing insincerity with such conviction. Jan Sterling, frequently a film noir bad girl, impresses as Bogie's respectable, principled wife. The strong, extensive cast includes appearances by former pros, Jersey Joe Walcott and Max Baer, plus seasoned character players, Jack Albertson and Herbie Faye. Attractive, statuesque Julie Benedic, at six foot one, considered too tall for regular roles, appears briefly as Lane's girlfriend.
Looking classy and stylish at the time of it's release, it's not top notch Bogie, but serves as a solid, worthy and poignant finale to a hugely distinguished career, cut distressingly short.
Wanted for Murder (1946)
Worth hanging around for
How ironic that Eric Portman's opening volley should be an ill tempered retort to girlfriend, Dulcie Gray for leaving him HANGING about for an hour and a half. Her plausible explanation of a prolonged delay on the Tube failing to quell his ire.
Portman is Victor Colebrooke, a man not so much haunted, as fully immersed and entirely consumed by the spectre of his deceased father, a notorious hangman in the late Victorian era, for whom job satisfaction was off the scale, as he wallowed in the morbid pleasure of the ultra-brief working relationships he forged with his clients and a sadistic smugness at his prolific turnover. His infamy recognized by a waxwork on display at Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors in his dishonour.
Any expectations of a murder mystery, whodunnit, or a final 'Cor, I never thought it were 'im!' are quickly dispelled and if you think for a moment that amorous, affable bus conductor, Derek Farr isn't quite the ticket, he immediately proves to be a fare minded all-round good guy.
No! 'Wanted for Murder' is a largely grim parable, offset by a couple of surprisingly comic moments, portraying Portman's inherent insanity and morbid passion for killing, targeting young women in London parks after dark, rendering them post dusk no-go areas in the process. Further, he taunts detective Roland Culver with postcards, not of the 'Weather beautiful, wish you were here' variety, but with chilling predictions of where he intends to strike next. Yet, between the lines lurks a cryptic cry for help and a veiled self-loathing.
'Wanted for Murder' plays out as a sombre depiction of a man imprisoned within himself, enduring a meltdown into murderous madness, and the brittle breakability of the 78 R. P. M. Record: Several smashed accidentally by a gramophone shop manageress and one deliberately in a fit of rage, by Portman. Was it on RCA, Victor?
Out of the Past (1947)
The girl can't help it........yeah, right!
If aliens ever land on earth enquiring, "Zubbo gog film noir?", a single viewing of 'Out of the Past' would send them on their intergalactic journey as significantly enlightened extra-terrestrials.
I found myself repeatedly watching several scenes for greater insight into the vagaries of the plot and the imaginative use of flashback, before suddenly realizing, 'I didn't study this hard for my 'A' Levels!'
Idiosyncrasies aside, it's the characters that make this movie enduringly memorable: Sly, oily, insidious, all controlling big operator, Kirk Douglas, in contention with dryly laconic patsy, Robert Mitchum, the fall guy, who just refuses to fall, always one step ahead, brushing aside every confrontation and heart pounding situation with cool detachment and a ready fist.
Scheming Jane Greer, screen's ultimate femme fatale, is 'Out of the Past's' jewel in the crown. Inherently manipulative, irresistibly mercurial, bouncing back and forth like a ping-pong ball, constantly switching allegiance in an obsessive pursuit of self gratification. Capable of pulling a trigger with the same nonchalant air that she would light a cigarette. Justifying each cunningly calculated move, each callous act, with a butter wouldn't melt, doe eyed, 'couldn't help it'. Even while sleeping, she's probably dreaming of which guy next to play for a sucker!
ALL THIS.....before even delving into the movie's stunningly mesmeric use of lighting. Seldom have the properties of light and shadow been so perceptively explored, so fully realized and wholly integrated into a film's overall visual impact.
The slightly blurry print provides a final ghostly nuance to a work already immersively eerie and atmospheric. The Holy Grail of film noir? There's no denying its pedigree, chum!
23 Paces to Baker Street (1956)
Please mind the gap
Sluggish and stilted at the start (to the point where I began inventing my own dialogue for amusement) blind, bitter and frustrated playwright Van Johnson lurches towards The Eagle, a pub so devoid of character and atmosphere, it ought to have been called The Lame Duck! Gently sipping his scotch, he is almost immediately receptive to a disturbing conversation in the adjacent bar, partially obliterated by a participant on the pinball machine.
He may have lost his sight, but with one, two, three, four senses working overtime, he detects that someone is in grave danger. Needless to say nobody catches a clear view of the couple as they hurriedly depart and Johnson is left with only the whiff of a familiar perfume as a clue.
Senior police investigator, Maurice Denham and his anonymous sidekick are none too impressed by Johnson's fanciful, melodramatic musings. No doubt far more preoccupied with ridding the capital of REAL crime - wearing odd socks in a built up area and eating crisps without due care and attention - to take the rambling whims of a blind man seriously.
From this point, the pace increases, with Johnson playing detective, supported by lovely former fiance, Vera Miles and plum in the mouth, secretary/servant Cecil Parker. Barely have we finished chuckling at Patricia Laffan's phony Scottish accent, than we discover it was a genuinely phony Scottish accent, integral to an ever deepening plot. Parker adds some welcome comic relief, making endless telephone calls and undertaking miles of leg work in torrential rain. Meanwhile Johnson's own attempt to bring the culprits into the open lead to him being lured into what he believes is an apartment, but is only the crumbling remains of a bare room at the top of a derelict, bomb damaged building, entirely stripped of any frontage. It takes a murder to finally arouse Denham and company from their inertia, but for the man whose only constant companion is darkness, one daunting, final challenge lies in wait.
Distinctly underwhelmed, when I watched '23 Paces' a number of years ago. Viewing it a second time, the movie falls comfortably into the category of 'neat little thriller'. Not mega, but sufficiently interesting and unusual to hold the attention, proving that films are often worthy of reappraisal and in some cases improve with age.
Count the Hours! (1953)
The gun in the lake movie
Despite the economical running time, very much more of this unexceptional movie may well have felt like counting the hours as the finale approached.
Opening as a spine tingling creepshow, rapidly followed by gunfire and a double murder, 'Count the Hours' soon settles upon a pedestrian plateau as John Craven desperately pleads innocent of any crime, his case seriously damaged when panic stricken wife, Teresa Wright disposes of his gun in a nearby lake. The ensuing, protracted courtroom scene does little to reignite the adrenaline levels.
Sceptical, inexperienced lawyer, MacDonald Carey, is initially unwilling to take the case, until he spots Wright risking life and limb, repeatedly diving as she attempts to retrieve the gun. Carey is also confronted by the prevailing small town ethos (even evident amongst all the fun and games of My Cousin Vinny) in which everybody knows everybody else and nobody knows anybody who would ever do anything to hurt anyone.....Does that make sense? Therefore, Craven and Wright tick all the boxes as drifters, out- of- towners, new kids on the block, who simply MUST be guilty!
It's all rapidly rolling into the realms of rigmarole, until a much needed shot in the arm arrives in the form of loopy local loony, Jack Elam and his kooky, money grabbing, gold digging moll, Adele Mara. A femme fatale failure, whose feminine wiles fall foul of the unpredictable Elam and the reputable Carey.
'Count the Hours' has its moments, it's worth the time, but hardly the film noir fireball it promises to be at the start. Elam and Mara largely steal the show, well supported by the endearingly sincere, guilt ridden Wright. In contrast, neither Carey nor Craven radiate any significant on screen charisma, while Dolores Moran is serviceable as the bride to be. The movie always struggles to maintain momentum following its Wham-Bam-Thankyou-Mam launch. Perhaps it's just a bit too obvious, right down to Elam's name in the opening credits. Could you REALLY imagine him as a doting, favourite uncle, or the kindly family doctor?
This Side of the Law (1950)
The seven year hitch
Waves crashing violently over jagged rocks, against a moonlit sky, presided over by an isolated, almost spectral clifftop house, while a desperate man, trapped at the bottom of a disused cesspool rapidly loses any hope of escape. It all sets the tone for a movie as preposterous as it is atmospheric.
Dishevelled, down at heel vagrant, Kent Smith, comes under the gaze of suave, sophisticated, savvy but scheming lawyer Robert Douglas. With his educated English accent and pencil thin moustache, he is the template for the Tom Helmore character in 'Vertigo'. Smith scrubs up sufficiently well to pass for dapper, prosperous Malcolm Taylor, seven years missing and about to be pronounced officially dead, which will spark serious financial repercussions for his estate.
That a grubby, random, homeless man could be so remarkably transformed, have the confidence, poise audacity and chutzpah to pull off such a stunt, even for BIG money, certainly stretches credibility. To then arrive on the doorstep, after seven years without trace or explanation and greet 'wife' Viveca Lindfors with a slightly sheepish, "Hello Evelyn" is almost as laughable as The Disaster Artist's 'Oh! Hi Mark' moment. Smith also has to deal with hostility from brother, John Alvin, who loathes him and the advances of sister in law, Janis Paige, who loves him. All minor fare compared with the relentlessly barking, snarling, howling dog, Angel, who would gladly eat him...... before moving on to the main course!
Smith may look, sound, act and even smell like Missing Malcolm, but as always the Devil is in the detail. Small revelations start to arouse suspicion concerning his veracity. As the double crosses double, every ten minutes, the absurdities of the plot ultimately give way to something altogether more intriguing and absorbing. Whilst the stark, forbidding settings evoke the aura of the best goth noir. The largely second tier cast turn in convincing performances, with Janis Paige's femme fatale especially memorable in a movie which emerges with greater integrity than initially anticipated. Undiscovered by myself, until recently, 'This Side of the Law', is an interesting addition to my ever expanding noir catalogue.