THE STREET WITH NO NAME (1948)

This notable and hardly unknown film from Twentieth Century Fox was adapted from actual FBI files. Though you may never notice, some roles were played by the actual personnel involved. It was photographed in the original locale whenever possible, albeit in fictitious “Center City.” The documentary style is typical of the era with amazing revelations of the highly technical procedures used to catch criminals. An oft-parodied melodramatic narrator keeps us informed in case we cannot fully grasp what we are seeing.

Though Mark Stevens gets top billing, it is Richard Widmark's film. Stevens is excellent and believable, but Widmark extinguishes any flame that might have been erupting from the former. Widmark plays an underworld kingpin with an addiction, of sorts, to nasal inhalers and suspicion of drafts from open windows. Only bad guys have nasal congestion, apparently. Add Lloyd Nolan, John McIntire and Ed Begley into the mix and you have a solid acting troupe. The screenplay includes no lulls in the action and the film is satisfying from beginning to end. A ninety-minute lesson on how to do film noir, thanks in big part to William Keighley's direction.

After a holdup at a nightclub ends in a murder, the FBI, headed by Inspector Nolan, meets with the Police Chief, Begley, and Police Commissioner, Howard Smith, to put a stop to the current crime wave. Nolan is introduced to an undercover agent, Stevens, whose assignment is to infiltrate the gang responsible. He is set up in a hotel room across the street from a fellow agent, McIntire, who will be his eyes and ears. Using an alias, Stevens causes enough prearranged trouble to get the attention of Widmark, who subsequently has Stevens' social security card stolen. With the aid of a corrupt official, it is his system to uncover someone's background. Widmark likes what he finds and enlists Stevens for his next big heist. Right before the heist is to take place, however, Widmark gets a call from his informant that the FBI knows all about it. 

It is a pretty exciting ending after fingerprints from Widmark's gun are identified and his FBI informant spills the beans. On Widmark's plan, the police arrive at a prearranged warehouse robbery with instructions to kill the identified Stevens. A case of mistaken identity kills one gang member and to the kingpin's surprise, all guns are instructed to fire in his direction. The dirty police official feels pretty smug assuming he has tied up all loose ends. The truth shall not set him free. 

Note: There is a great scene done without a stitch of supporting music. Stevens needs evidence from Widmark's gun to help convict him. Under noir, he returns to the gang's hideout, the basement over Widmark's boxer training gym. Widmark arrives and is suspicious of light in the lower level. In his retreat, Stevens glances against a boxer's punching bag, and the chain creaking is the only sound heard as Widmark silently investigates.

BLAST OF SILENCE! (1961)

“You do not have to know a man to live with him. But you have to know a man like a brother to kill him.” So sums up the main character in this oxymoron-titled film, reminiscent of a college-crafted art film project. Primarily known as a director, Allen Baron's oddball approach is typical of a student who is allowed the artistic freedom to do whatever he wants for a project to get that “A” grade. All his cash and loose change are used for this budgeted film which accounts for its starkness. Even a big band jazz score is used with restraint. This is not a film to be shot during the rejuvenation of spring. Like the lead character's future, winter is bleak.

My opening paragraph is not intended to be critical. Baron's project packs a wallop and could be the most expensive-looking film from such a limited budget. He embarrassed all "his fellow film students." I can only imagine a coffee house’s beatnik banter the day after the film's premiere. The film's “artsy” tone is set as the film opens with a shaky white spot in the center of the screen which is both frustrating and thought-provoking. As the voice-over narration cryptically spells out Baron's backstory, the white spot gets larger and resolves itself into a train tunnel’s opening. Later, a similar effect is used on the streets of Manhattan as we watch Baron walk toward a low camera from a very great distance. In total silence. Ingmar Bergman would be envious. 

Baron plays Frankie Bono, a name surely found in a top ten list of underworld figures. Visually, he is a cross between George C. Scott and Robert De Niro. In fact, the latter could fill this role without anyone knowing the difference. There are no studio sets to be found here. All filming takes us to the actual neighborhoods of New York City as we witness Baron's lonely, emotionally damaged and pessimistic life unravel. Rarely has location shooting looked so expensive―an almost documentary feel―as we follow the detailed workings of a carefully efficient hitman.

Mel Davenport’s narration features the distinctive, wood-chipper voice of Lionel Stander. Aside from the myriad of interesting camera positions, his expressive voice-over is the defining element of this film. The long, drawn-out scenes of watching Baron go about his systematic contract procedure would be lifeless without it. The narration reflects Baron’s conscience and inner thoughts. We learn of Baron’s disgust with his contract hit, a mob boss. He is repulsed by his high lifestyle and hates his mustache because it is there only to hide the fact that he has lips like a woman. So says Stander.

The cinematography will have the viewer reaching for a warm hoodie. Baron seems to be just another shopper as he passes decorated storefronts with real-life pedestrians—unaware they are being filmed—appearing as “extras.” Christmastime provides no happy memories for Baron. He hates it. Under gloomy, overcast skies, the final scenes at Spring Creek in Brooklyn are particularly effective—despite using what sounds like the sound effect for the flying scenes from the old The Adventures of Superman television show—as the relentless wind bends the tall grasses and removes men’s hats. 

All the characters in this film are as ordinary as your own friends might be. Hopefully not this strange. These are people captured in their own world of monotony and self-doubt. Molly McCarthy returns after her underwhelming performance in, The Great St. Louis Bank Robbery, as a longtime interest of Baron. Once again, McCarthy's acting is tolerable at best. Their relationship has no future even without her knowing what he does for a living. The slimy, and weirdly whispered opening performance by the bearded Larry Tucker is particularly creepy. His lines are delivered as if auditioning for the Don Corleone role. Calm but dangerous. His closest companions are a herd of rats in cages. I believe it was Alfred Hitchcock, referring to his film, Torn Curtain, who imagined how difficult it must be to actually kill a person with your bare hands. Tucker's demise is quite gut-wrenching. To say Baron is not affected by the murder would be unrealistic. Baron takes no pleasure in his lifestyle. Today’s films unrealistically have a psychopathic murderer who delights in torturing someone to death by the most diabolical means.  

Note: One cannot ignore Dean Sheldon's acting as a nightclub singer. Sheldon is perhaps best known for his film career. This movie. His performance is a slippery slope between lounge singer and beatnik. Outside any murders, these might be the most brutal scenes in the movie. Though one cannot deny his total commitment to selling the songs.

GET OUTTA TOWN! (1960)

There is a 99.99% chance you will not recognize anyone in this very late-to-the-party film noir offering. A cast of total unknowns with more television credits than films. Davis-Wilson Productions (Wilson, as in Doug Wilson) will also be unknown as well as Sterling World Distributors. Not a problem. Though obviously lean on production values, the leads, especially Wilson, do not embarrass themselves and the dialogue is also lean with some snappy lines. This film is Wilson's baby, a self-produced film lending freedom without studio bigwigs butting in. At about an hour long, this is a decent (albeit 1950s) film proving that low budgets can do wonders in the right hands. Few movies have a more appropriate title than this one. Everyone wants Wilson outta town. Even his mother.

Nothing like a jazz score and a good beatin’ in the dark to get your attention over the opening credits. With every punch, there is a trumpet blast. All that is missing are the superimposed graphic words, “Pow!” or “Blat!” Wilson’s face is a cross between an older Tim Allen and a younger Richard Boone. He walks like an ordinary guy, at times lazily tilting back and forth, side to side as if one leg is slightly shorter. He does a fine job here and might have made a good Philip Marlowe. Yet this was his last film after only a few roles to his name. This "been-there-done-that" film hardly disappoints from an entertainment perspective, especially the scenes that may make your shoulders bounce up and down with laughter.

Told with a brief flashback, we find Wilson wondering what led up to his vicious, opening attack. He is back in Los Angeles to bury his crime-punk brother. He first encounters a disgruntled police officer, the premature balding, Frank Hardy, whose facial expression gives a distinct impression smiling was never his thing. He hates the sight of Wilson and tells him to get outta town as quickly as possible. Wilson tries to explain that his three years in prison changed him though he quickly realizes it is futile to continue flappin' his lips. Niceties are not exchanged. Hardy does not trust the former hoodlum. As Wilson moves on, he confirms to his partner that Wilson is “As rough as a stucco bathtub.” A great line and point taken.

Wilson pays a visit to his former girlfriend, Jeanne Braid, (above top) who does not believe in his transformation. She wants him outta town. Braid lets it slip his brother was probably murdered. Wilson sets out to avenge his brother's death one door at a time. When he is not knocking on doors he is leaving a building, pausing to light a cigarette, and thinking about which direction to go next. This repeats a few times and its frequency is amusing, like scenes that might precede a television commercial break.

Wilson reconnects with “Squirrel,” a nervous stoolie for a local gang. He is thrilled to see Wilson again but you get the feeling “Squirrel” might rat on him just to keep in good with his boss. He takes Wilson out back to a secret door, loosely painted with a huge black, “X.” How the cops have missed this is amazing. Looks like an “Our Gang” clubhouse entrance. He reunites with an old pal who is also surprised to see Wilson. With another noir quip, he tells Wilson he had him figured for a “concrete kimona.” In the ranks is a guy who does not like Wilson simply because he does not know him. Even he is unfamiliar with the cast. He tries to remove Wilson with a screwdriver. Perhaps a Phillips-head. Wilson throttles the kid with the butt end of a loaded steel beer can then a fist to silence him. “Squirrel” goes nuts. Wilson is back!

After the flashback has expired, there are plenty of doors left to knock on as he reunites with Lee Kross and his wife, played by the blonde Marilyn O'Connor. She and Wilson have a past and he accepts her advances to find out the whole truth about Kross. He agrees to help Wilson find out about his brother but first, oddly, he says he needs to change his shirt. What he had on looked perfectly acceptable to me. The ending wraps up very suddenly, with rapid-fire verbal exchanges between Wilson and Kross informing the viewer of the latter's backstory. He turns into a sniveling coward when reminded of his slim chance of surviving the syndicate. The police arrive to find Kross attempting to make a run for it. Hardy is not pleased that Wilson is still in town.

For the final time, with saxophone in support, Wilson exits a building, pauses, then decides to go right. By now, Braid has come to terms with his life's turnaround and she rushes to join him in San Francisco. 

INVASION, U.S.A. (1952)

Very little has not been said about this basement-budget movie which turned in a huge box-office profit, proving that sensationalism sells. On the cutting edge of mediocrity, it is so bad it is “good.” The production cost savings of combat stock footage smothers the film and is rarely accurate or believable. This Columbia Pictures release is nothing else if not a film about hypnotic power. Mass hypnotic power. To be fair, it is a rather clever “back door” approach to a subject that was on the minds of some big metropolis movers and shakers in the early Fifties. Once the “unthinkable” happens, the director serves up a scary scenario. Scale models and burning building footage were used during the ending nuclear bomb drop on New York City, I imagine Hedda Hopper's quote on the poster rang true on opening night, which left moviegoers scrambling to locate said pants after the ending.

It is an invasion of a B-movie cast starting with Gerald Mohr, of radio fame. He is a well-known television newscaster conducting interviews at a New York City cocktail bar for his next broadcast. Sort of his “Andy Rooney Moment” perhaps saying, “Did you ever notice those local bar patrons?” While the broadcast news is playing on an impressively large, wall-mounted Admiral television screen, his questions are directed at an amazingly coincidental cross-section of America's wealthy who show up on cue as if in a stage play. There is the pretty socialite, escorted (or hit on) by a California industrialist, a Congressman, and a wealthy Arizona rancher. However, providing a leveler for the other side of life is Tom Kennedy, the ubiquitous bartender. This is probably the only film to include both actresses who played the original Lois Lane character on the television series.

The pivotal role goes to Dan O'Herlihy as the unknown entity and mysterious, Mr. Ohman (as in Omen). His occupation is a forecaster and Mohr jots down “meteorologist.” Biding his time reading a book entitled, “Mercury,” oddly enough, his character is responsible for the film's premise. With a large brandy snifter in hand, his sonorous tone, and his experienced way of swishing around the liquid, everyone is now in a trance. From one end of the bar's counter to the other. Do not deny this has never happened to you. He imparts words of wisdom and a Cold War warning. Many Americans want safety and security but do not want to make any sacrifices to keep them. Through their subconsciousness, the ”invasion” unfolds. Suddenly the news becomes catastrophically bad.

Our bar patrons scramble to do their part against the enemy. As Air Force jets scramble in retaliation, composer, Albert Glasser weaves in part of the wild blue yonder “Air Force Song” in-between threatening chords of angst. As if this whole premise is not preposterous enough, socialite, Peggie Castle, wants Mohr. They fall in love in between atomic blasts. Death and Hollywood's stereotypical pessimistic outlook for the future are thrust on the cast until Kennedy brings everyone back to reality by dinging O'Herlihy's solitary snifter. Kennedy escaped that short Hypno-trance while cleaning drinking glasses. Bartenders are always cleaning glasses to the point of being paper-thin! Keeping him engaged, commenting on the news, was a clever device to fool the viewer into thinking he was in lock-step with those hypnotized and the mayhem was real. The five are thankful it was only a nightmare as O'Herlihy leaves them with his final thought-provoking comments. 

Note: On the aviation front, some American aircraft pose as Soviet planes, so it is hard to tell what the enemy is flying in all the edited confusion. Paratroopers are dropped from American aircraft yet reports suggest these are enemy troops. Making it even more confusing, aside from the muddy film clips, massive amounts of Boeing B-29s pose as the reverse-engineered Tupolev Tu-4 Soviet bombers, dropping A-bombs at will. “Bomps Avey!” A plane that did not have enough range to ever hope of returning back to their homeland, perhaps crash landing in some American suburb or factory instead. One bit of aviation accuracy, if you are keeping track of what the good guys are flying, is United Kingdom footage of the Intercontinental Convair B-36D bombers taking off, representing one deterrent to further aggression.