I BURY THE LIVING (1958)

Albert Band brings his long list of B-movie credits into play for this United Artists macabre tale about a man who thinks he may be affecting people’s lives by using push pins. I note the excellent cinematography effects by Frederick Gately, below. Still, the score by the award-winning composer, Gerald Fried, sets the stage for a spooky tale using a harpsichord, a frantic tempo, and dissonant chords. The movie seems like an extended episode of television’s, Night Gallery. The viewer is sucked in right from the opening credits with a statement suggesting that some men (mankind) have the ability of great mental power over events—the old “man as God” thing—and that the dead are simply biding their time underground until released back into the unemployment lines. Do not be misled by the studio's poster. There is nothing scary about this film. It is spooky, ghost-believing science fiction at best. As is typical of low-budget “horror” movies, the ending is disappointing with the outcome as expected. It may have, however, elicited some talk around the office water cooler in the era. 

Richard Boone is appointed chairman of a committee that oversees a large cemetery. His acting skill shows restraint and does not go overboard with the character’s emotions. He is quite creditable and, as usual, improves this film. A thirty-four-year-old Theodore Bikel, the caretaker, does his best old man routine with a Scottish accent in one of the more obvious wigs from makeup artist, Jack Pierce, who may have lost interest in the film at some point. Bikel is not that convincing but he had a nice limp going there for a while.

Black pins mark the filled graves on a map resembling a Picasso sketch of the cemetery grounds. The white pins indicate unoccupied graves. Boone accidentally places two black pins where they should not be and both persons mysteriously die in an automobile accident—surely a coincidence. But it repeatedly happens either through experimentation or challenges from doubters. Boone believes he is cursed and he falls helplessly into a deep depression. 

The body count is up to seven from Boone’s pin-pushing spree. In an epiphany, he decides that if black pins give him the power of death, white pins might give him the power of life. He replaces all of the black pins with white pins. He discovers that certain graves have been dug but no casket in the plots. If you believe in this preposterous scheme, the climactic finish may spoil it. Hokum has an equally powerful force over people. I should mention that Bickel’s character is nuts.

Note: Some cinematography effects are artistically well done by Gately. The map causes much distress for Boone and near the climax appears to glow, consuming  Boone. At one point, after being struck by Bikel, an overhead light swings back and forth casting light and shadows across the pins in the map creating a dizzying optical illusion. Another has Boone’s silhouette superimposed on the map as an animated graphic illustration, eliciting an out-of-body experience for him. Watching this film may have the same effect.

THE DARK CORNER (1946)

It is hard to find flaws in this quintessential film-noir directed by Henry Hathaway. The opening theme may sound familiar. "Manhattan Melody" was used for many New York films of the Forties. Hats off to the sometimes witty and sharp, cutting dialogue by screenwriters Schoenfeld and Dratler, based on a story in Good Housekeeping by Leo Rosten. The cinematography by Joseph MacDonald is a textbook example of film noir. He puts the noir in film noir. A clever example is when we see William Bendix, in a white suit, juxtaposed with Mark Stevens' dark silhouette in an adjoining room, as if in a split-screen or a positive-negative effect. It also suggests that men who wear white are not necessarily the good guys. Not a big success during its first run but it has gained high praise in hindsight.

As a private investigator, Mark Stevens is a falsely accused ex-con trying to run a legitimate private investigator business. His character is on edge most of the film, disgruntled by an undeserved prison term. It is easy to figure out Stevens’ career potential, here billed as "the new tough guy." He is not a fan of compromising when he should be and he delivers a strong performance. He was on everyone’s radar after this film, catapulting him from "under the radar" roles at Warner Bros. Fred MacMurray, originally set to star, would not have pulled off the pint-up anger and edginess of Stevens, also in hindsight. Yet Stevens never made the A-list. Lucille Ball is somewhat the female equivalent in films. She is his newly hired secretary and best ally. They hit it off right from the start. Ball got lost at Twentieth Century Fox during this period competing with similar actresses with not enough uniqueness to draw attention. The new medium of television was around another corner where she will completely obliterate these roles and never look back.

Stevens is being tailed by William Bendix. After a brutal confrontation, Bendix falsely confesses he is working for Kurt Krueger, Stevens’ former partner and corrupt lawyer who set him up for prison. Stevens, with Ball’s help, attempts to uncover what appears to be Krueger setting up Stevens for another fall. But Bendix is in cahoots with Clifton Webb, a wealthy art gallery owner. Webb knows his pretty wife prefers the younger Krueger and his possessive nature will not let him share any of his valuable works of art. Whether inanimate or not.

Webb suggests that Bendix plan an unannounced visit at Stevens' office and also talks Krueger into seeing Stevens the same night. After a brief struggle, Bendix gives Stevens his ether handkerchief, then murders the next person expected through the door, Krueger. The frame is set for the unconscious Stevens. Rather than pay off Bendix, Webb dispenses with him for his screen finale. It would appear Webb has tied up all the loose ends. Stevens starts putting two and three together and confronts Webb at his gallery. The condescending Webb is in for a big surprise.

Note: The film ends on a lighter note. While Stevens is being cleared of any wrongdoing at the gallery, two Brooklyn cops contemplate a Donatello statue. Not a word from either for quite a while until the first officer wonders, “Imagine anyone in their right mind ever buying a piece of junk like that?” His partner, lacking any sophistication replies in a Brooklyn gravel voice, “Shoeuh they do. That is ahht.”

COUNTERPLOT (1959)

Forrest Tucker and Allison Hayes together at last! A stale tale of murder, a conniving lawyer and an expressionless boy in one sleepy location, Puerto Rico. The United Artists film is, literally, a real sleeper with opening music by Paul Sawtell and Bert Shefter that has all the sentimentalism deserving of this movie. Jackie Wayne plays the young errand boy looking out for Tucker who is in hiding from an assumed murder. Judging by the dark makeup, Wayne is supposed to be a native "San Juanian." He seems to worship Tucker and he likes their “just guys” arrangement. No icky women around. Tucker frequently scolds him for not doing what he is told, however.

Nightclub singer and icky woman, Hayes, has a past with Tucker and Wayne thinks she is the reason for Tucker’s trouble. Upon her arrival, she and Wayne spot each other but he does not initially acknowledge her. His lie about Tucker’s whereabouts is not convincing. Hayes is soon addressed by another familiar face, corrupt lawyer, Gerald Milton, the San Juan Shyster. The burly actor with his clear, commanding voice never uses contractions when speaking. It reminds me of one who commands people to do their bidding. A delivery that is two-thirds sultan and one-third Tonto. Even though Hayes says she is back to perform at her former gig, he suspects she is in town to find Tucker. Their cat-and-mouse conversation reveals more about Milton than the location of Tucker.

Milton comes to Tucker’s legitimate aid, however, keeping his hiding place secret from the adhesive-mustached Richard Verney, a business partner of the man murdered. With a tempting offer to represent him legally, Milton gets Verney to spill his guts about who actually committed the murder. All the while being secretly recorded by Milton. In retrospect, Tucker decked Verney’s partner during insults and feared his fall to the floor accidentally killed him. Tucker fled. Watching from another room, Verney finished off his partner to inherit the (no kidding) Acme insurance policy against his death. He is killed with a most gentle, choreographed head pounding against the floor which actually looked like he was trying to wake him. Wake up, little buddy! Clearly irritated with most anyone, Verney delivers his lines with a tight-lipped, disgruntled delivery of his best bad guy impression. His tenor voice sounds amateurish as many of his lines trail off to a whining end.

Milton’s assistant and legman, Miguel Angel Alvarez, double-crosses him and tells Verney where Tucker is hiding. Milton struggles to get control of Alvarez’s gun. When The Shyster bends over to retrieve it, he gets a letter opener in the back. Milton is able to get two shots off with a final, 'You interfered. I make payment.' Him plenty dead, now. Meanwhile, to prevent Tucker’s death by Verney’s gun, the boy shoots him in the arm with Tucker’s gun. Tucker later tells the boy that today he has become a man...his first shooting. He pours a “shot” of whiskey for each of them and teases him to take the drink. The boy is confused. Hesitant. He quickly puts down the drink in embarrassment. Tucker laughs at him. We do not know what happens with the boy after Tucker and the icky woman get back together. But that laugh probably took the boy some time to leave it behind.

Note: One funny editing note. As Hayes finishes her song, accepting applause, the camera cuts to Tucker’s face and then back to Hayes who is now in a completely different dress. Therein lies the popularity of her club act. The ability to change clothes on stage so fast that no one can see her do it. David Copperfield would be incredulous!

20,000 EYES (1961)

This tolerable film—only sixty-one minutes—opens with a driving, big band score by Albert Glasser, the king of B-movie composers. Against automobile headlights cutting through night streets, interesting title designs give one the feeling of a cutting-edge crime drama. Even so, the poster might have you believe by the "Vertigo-inspired" graphic and "horror" eyes, that this is a William Castle horror film. I was relieved, however, that “The Beast With...” is absent from the title. 20,000 was a popular round number during this or the Jules Verne era. The dialogue is well memorized, always on cue, and disappointing.

Singer and hoofer, Gene Nelson, tries again to step out of his musical background with another crime movie. There is little that sets him apart from others, arriving very late to the noir party. Nelson is in the spotlight right from the first scene. Though a legit diamond mine investor, he needs capital to cover a failing mine in Brazil. He swindles rotund John Banner’s investment money to do it. Banner feeds Nelson a knuckle sandwich as his introduction to the movie. Nelson intends to pay him back but he needs time. Much more than the five days Banner gives him. The poor sound quality, Banner’s thick German accent and fading volume make it difficult to understand all of his dialogue. I could have used subtitles.

Merry Anders plays Nelson’s secretary and girlfriend. To help with Nelson’s predicament, they contact Nelson’s old Army buddy and mining partner—Anders’s old flame—James Brown. Brown brings some diamond samples at Nelson’s request as promotional investments. His plan involves stealing valuable diamonds from a museum and returning them after an appropriate appraisal. With a lot of persuading they both help make the theft a success. Nelson (his stunt double) sneaking across rooftops and into the museum before dawn is a nice touch. It has the momentary feeling of a high-quality caper. It continues so dark one cannot see Nelson’s time-consuming detail work he goes through to steal the diamonds from the museum case. Unless one has stolen jewels before from a case with alarms, you will have no idea what he is doing. I think he may have done a super professional job (for his first time) but one will never know for sure. But the director sure devoted a lot of film to it.

It is easy to lose track of which diamonds were samples, switched, stolen, stolen again or returned in Nelson’s shell game. His meeting with diamond appraisers is interrupted by Brown disguised as a robber. In the planned struggle with Brown’s gun, Nelson is supposed to take a bullet in the arm. Also part of the plan is a prior injection of Novocain into Nelson’s forearm so he does not feel the bullet as much. I have never tried that. I assume it stops the bleeding as well.

In the director’s attempt to explain away the logic behind the theft, Robert Shayne is given a useless part as the police lieutenant who tries to piece together Brown’s presence at the bank. The whole scene, filmed with the echo of an area microphone, lasts less than two minutes. Everyone gives contradicting remarks about the bandit’s identity and reasons for him arriving at that precise moment. Shayne is stumped, gives up, and is the last we see of him.

The phony theft of the diamonds means Nelson’s insurance policy will pay off. But it will take six weeks to get the money returned to Banner. Nelson pays Banner a visit poolside with his twenty-two-inch television console nearby. After Nelson’s attempt to explain, Banner threatens Nelson, who pushes Banner backward into the pool, tipping over the console on the way down. Never mix electricity and chlorine.

Note: This B-movie has the qualifying attributes. Dark filters for night scenes. Abrupt editing. Many interior scenes were filmed with an area microphone. Showing Nelson in his 1961 Chrysler pulling curbside a few times at the same location supplements the film’s location action and cements a low budget. The music score, so promising at the beginning, inserts itself in some scenes as if the composer never saw the rushes. Except for the poor lighting, questionable script and directing, it may satisfy an hour, however.

HONG KONG CONFIDENTIAL (1958)

This United Artists film uses periodic voice-over narration akin to a documentary newsreel. The Robert Kent Production sounds authenticated and unfolds the story with the smallest studio sets, looking more like an early television play. Yet in one scene they manage to squeeze in a current model Ford through one tiny street, leaving little room for the studio lighting let alone the Asian extras to walk about on cue. It is a tale of Cold War tensions with the Soviet Union and the special government agents assigned to resolve an unusual case. It is all fairly silly and predictable but the secret agent premise beats the Bond pictures out of the starting gate. 

The Communist's “new weapon” is to kidnap the son of an Arab King to pressure him into not signing an agreement with the United States to build a missile base in his small Arab nation. Assigned to find the prince is undercover agent, Gene Barry, who is posing as a lounge singer in a tiny Hong Kong nightclub set. He handles suave with the best of them and this film highlights his talents. The two brief songs he performs are the standout moments in the film. Barry had a voice but his body rhythm here is hilariously stiff and corny. His left and right arms do whatever they want with his body planning on moving right but it suddenly feels compelled to move left. Cannot fault him for trying his best to sell the first lame song about himself. But he is definitely a “foot loser.” Few would ever guess he is an intelligence agent, so in that regard, he is in deep cover. His love interest and accompanist is played by Beverly Tyler in her last film before transitioning to television. She is not undercover yet her faked piano playing made me suspicious.

After Barry’s informant is killed, King Calder, the intelligence agent recommends Barry for the prince's retrieval. There is evidence that the informant had ties to Allison Hayes, who is under surveillance for gold smuggling to the Communists. Hayes can play untrustworthy through makeup and wardrobe alone. She resides in another small Asian film set called Macao. So Barry has about forty feet to travel, not forty miles, in the hope of flushing out the kidnappers. Barry sells her on his smuggling plan of mass-producing souvenirs, yet after the cheap metal is burned off, underneath is solid gold.

Barry discovers a medallion belonging to the kidnapped prince in the office of Noel Drayton and the kidnapping mastermind is revealed. Hayes sets up a meeting with Drayton but double-crosses Barry at gunpoint, forcing him into a cellar where Drayton awaits with the kidnapped prince. Smugly, he tells his plan to pin the kidnapping on the American Barry. He and the prince will be killed after the Arab King signs the papers to let the Commies establish their own missile base. All wait impatiently for that important phone call. But Barry comes up with a plan to disrupt the telephone service that is right out of a Bond playbook. In the standard secret agent ploy, he needs to stand and "fake" stretch. Then with outstretched arms, he casually picks up a thick metal pin lying near the telephone. Really not sure what it is, yet it is pretty obvious he is up to something. I am surprised Barry was not whistling a random tune. Drayton is oblivious. Suspended disbelief at its best. The funny scene continues as Barry sits back down and one arm immediately dives between the cushions as if it were sucked in. Below the couch is where the telephone line is and he pokes the pin through the rubber-encased telephone cable. Drayton must call from an upstairs phone to confirm the signing. He leaves Hayes alone with Barry. Uh-oh. Moviegoers knew what was coming next. In her “duh” moment, Barry volunteers to light her cigarette but overwhelms her with his charms...uh...arms, knocking the gun from her hand and as she stumbles hits her head in the fall. Drayton returns and graciously accepts a bullet. Barry and the prince escape.

One evil-doer is holding Tyler as Barry leverage. Barry kicks open the door and stands back as Asian bullets shoot the hallway full of lead. Without looking, Barry shoots around the door frame, killing the man. Yes. He is that good. At that very moment, another man is ready to shoot Barry in the back but he is shot in the back by Calder. This would have extended in a Zucker Brothers film. Tyler’s suspicions about Barry’s dancing abilities become clearer when she learns of his real occupation.

Note: Another funny scene, an optical illusion, is between Calder and Barry. Both men are facing the camera with Calder standing right behind Barry's right shoulder. Due to the lighting and shadows, it appears Calder is resting his chin on Barry's shoulder, who is getting a bit uncomfortable.

THE LONG HAUL (1957)

This film opens ominously late at night behind a contemporary, driving score with modern fonts. It has the intriguing feel of a possible Cold War drama. An Army truck comes to a halt near London and out pops Victor Mature with his trademark countenance of superior sarcasm. His momentary heavy eyelids are not from an all-night drive. This will be his last delivery for the U.S. Army and with his discharge sets his sights back on returning to America. His British wife would rather stay put to raise their family. After a moment of heated discussion, Mature realizes staying put is best for their marriage.

His lorry driving comes to an abrupt end, through no fault of his own, after an incident places Mature on Britain’s “do not call list.” Desperate for living money he gets involved with a smuggling operation run by Patrick Allen. Allen’s girl, Diana Dors, has been under his control for some time. He treats her like any of his property. Keeping her looking cheap is anything but. In an intense exchange, she walks out on him and hides in Mature’s lorry. Mature opens the driver’s door and the arrangement is not to his liking. She insists on going to any place else. She prefers a mature man much to Allen’s ire and they begin an on-again, off-again affair with Mature’s marriage taking the brunt.

Always scheming, Allen wants to complete a money-making long haul of hot furs and a sizable cash reward persuades Mature to drive. The middle seat is cushioned by Dors. How the three of them continue to get along is a wonder. The time-sensitive delivery through forest and mountain shortcuts is exciting with literal cliffhangers at every turn. They cross a stream but get stuck on the embankment coming out. While Mature is trying to free up a wheel, Allen diabolically lets the lorry roll backward, hoping to mash Mature. A fistfight ensues with neither actor appearing to use a stunt double as they slosh around the water's edge. Allen is hit by a sliding container from the truck bed and then smothered under a mountain of falling fur boxes and drowns.

After delivering some soggy furs to the cargo ship on time, Mature and Dors take a cab back to town. Their route back was the better one for that fur delivery in hindsight. She begs him to run away with her. The money he got from the long haul is meant for his wife as a final goodbye gesture. Dors delivers it and his wife delivers a slap across her face. Dors overhears talk of Mature’s son’s health (an earlier blow to the head from a fall has turned serious) but she is hesitant to mention it upon reentering the cab, which is a pretty low-down. He knew nothing of the illness and would not leave his wife and son despite his impending arrest. Dors returns to her nightclub gig and all live not so happily ever after.

Mature was more than halfway down the slope of his long-haul career and with a couple exceptions, this might be his best late-career serious role. It is hard to fault him in any of his prior projects, where he usually dominated the screen. Although at times self-deprecating about his career, he turns in a solid performance for a script that takes its time to unravel. Dors’ acting and vocal range cannot be faulted. She seems out of place in a crude trucker's cafe. Like burning magnesium, she is not hard to spot. Most posters used her image as a catalyst for ticket sales.

Note: Hollywood continued churning out this tired premise of the weak male having an affair. They have left out the weak part since, suggesting it is inevitable behavior. Guilt is still a conscience bender in late Fifties Hollywood.

PATTERNS (1956)

Flawless. Compelling. Stunning. Select words that describe this movie from a revised script and screenplay by Rod Serling first used for a Kraft Television Theater production the year before. The lack of a music score carries over from the television project. If you were told that the crux of the film revolves around boardroom meetings, one might think it would be boring. There is nothing here to bore the mature viewer. From the beautiful opening cinematography by Boris Kaufman—weaving between skyscrapers— the movie intrigues as if it were a creative art film. We see graphic patterns right before us, but Serling’s script deals more with personal behavior patterns and political movers and shakers.

Each actor performs a tour de force, but I cannot say enough about Everett Sloane who is extraordinary as the intimidating, iron-fisted company president. His workday begins with crowded ground-floor elevators. To understand Sloane’s status, the elevator operator forbids anyone in a particular elevator—the one reserved for Sloane. He expects no less and few words are ever exchanged. When the door opens, his staff are at his beckoned call.

Van Heflin and his wife, played by Beatrice Straight, arrive in New York City by invitation from Sloane after Heflin’s successful career as an industrial designer. He is a bit overwhelmed by the transition from his small Ohio town until he meets Ed Begley, the long-tenured Vice President, who reassures him in a calm demeanor. Begley has a soft spot for people. Their welfare is his first priority, a sentiment at odds with Sloane. One cannot discount Heflin but this film centers around Begley and Sloane.

Heflin’s first board meeting is an eye-opener. As he has done for many years, Begley voices his concerns over Sloane’s latest business plan in full earshot of fellow board members. Building up a head of steam, remaining cordial, Sloane suddenly and repeatedly nails him to the wall in vicious verbal attacks challenging his competence. Watching the board members sit uncomfortably staring at their folders even made me a bit uneasy. And as explosive as a conversation can possibly be, Sloane smoothly settles tensions down with reasoned foresight and a brief smile. No one dares challenge him without good reason and Begley has never had one. His desire is to get Begley to resign through humiliation. As if not shocked enough by his initial board meeting, Heflin is further jolted to learn his joining the company is to replace Begley. Heflin aligns himself too closely with Begley, lending support to him to the explosive ire of Sloane, who is not in a popularity contest. He is there to make a profit. For his verbal support of Begley, Sloane lays into Heflin with the same viciousness for not recognizing his own potential. The shocking scene packs a wallop, and of course, without the habitually used R-rated language of today’s films. There are no words of real substance wasted or a lack of self-control.

Heflin later spots Begley working late into the night. Begley, perhaps with one too many shots of whiskey, gets so upset referring to Sloane that one might think he is going to kill him at the next board meeting. Heflin begs him to calm down and seriously consider resigning. He is also angrily at rope’s end with stubborn Begley, who refuses to ever give Sloane any satisfaction. Begley’s path is crumbling beneath him. And he knows it. For the next board meeting, he again gets lambasted by Sloane. So relentless and severe that Begley stands up in a rage, but slowly and quietly apologizes to Sloane and the board as he has done for nearly thirty years. He walks out in a trance from the adjourned meeting and collapses in the hallway. He will not need to resign. Heflin believes Sloane is the catalyst for Begley’s death, knowing of his heart condition. Alone in his office, Sloane appears to briefly show sadness at this outcome but a new day of business is upon him.

The final scene is astounding. Heflin confronts Sloane, seemingly for the last time before returning to Ohio. He has had enough of New York City, the company, and Sloane in particular. In no uncertain terms, he tells Sloane how much he hates every inch of him. Heflin would do everything in his power to remove Sloane as president if he remained. Sloane has no problem with that and Heflin is welcome to try. Sloan defends himself by fiercely laying out his reasons for his behavioral pattern, continually challenging Heflin’s work ethic. Still in fiery conversation, out of the blue he immediately doubles Heflin’s salary and stock options. Without even a blink, Heflin also wants to inherit Begley’s “single dream” of breaking Sloane's jaw someday. Slightly amused, Sloane agrees and adds a rider giving him the same privilege to Heflin's jaw.

THE PROWLER (1951)

Louis B. Mayer once looked at Van Heflin and said, “You will never get the girl in the end.” This movie supports Mayer’s assessment. Heflin takes another turn playing a scoundrel, a deceiver in a policeman’s uniform. His past has been a series of disappointments that led to his career as a disgruntled cop. The viewer is not sure who the prowler is in this ninety-minute film and the authorities never find the prowler by the end. Helfin is not likable from his first scene to his last. His co-star is the lithe Evelyn Keyes. Her marriage is rocky due to a possessive, jealous husband, nearly twice her age. Keyes's timid, hesitant performance makes Heflin seem even more controlling. This is an oft-told story of greed, seduction, and a web of deceit. But with only a few implausible moments, the two stars make this obscure film quite watchable.

Heflin and his squad car companion, John Maxwell, arrive to investigate a prowler. Keyes is typically alone most nights because her husband is an overnight radio personality. By the way, he is voiced on the radio by screenwriter, Dalton Trumbo. Instantly, Heflin starts wondering what her “game” is as if she is just wanting attention. He becomes completely obsessed with her. The

In the guise of a follow-up call to check on Keyes's safety the next evening, Heflin comes right into her home and immediately gets comfy on the couch. She is very uncomfortable with his intrusion, not understanding why he keeps showing up. Heflin apologizes with all the fake sincerity he can muster. On another return visit, he needs a smoke but they are locked in a cabinet for her husband’s use. Heflin simply picks the lock in front of her with her hairpin, then snoops around the cabinet to discover an insurance policy on the husband's life.

She feels guilty about the possible affair and decides to call it off. As days pass she gets lonely. Every time she calls he lets the phone ring extra long before answering. He tells her she is right. Nothing he can do. It will never work out between them. And hangs up with regrets. Heflin falls back into his bed and a high-placed camera catches him with a huge smile. She is hooked.

In an official police uniform, Heflin concocts a late-night scheme at Keyes’ home. He makes it appear their screen door has been compromised, then repeatedly bangs the fence gate to arouse the husband. When Heflin sees him he shouts, “Halt!” as he opens fire. The murder becomes “a tragic accident” with Heflin resigning from the police force, never wanting to see a gun again. His deceit convinces Keyes that he may be a nice guy after all. They happily marry then the honeymoon surprise. She is four months pregnant. The date of the child's conception would prove the two had lied under oath. The final turning point for her is when he blurts out in anger about the life insurance policy he is counting on. Oops. Having the baby in a hospital would establish a record so they hide out for an astonishing five months in a desert ghost town. A town Maxwell always talked to Heflin about during his gem collecting.

Keyes goes into premature labor and Heflin seeks a doctor in a nearby town. Keyes discovers Heflin’s "disavowed" gun in his suitcase. She warns the doctor who returns to town with the newborn. Realizing the doctor will send the police, Heflin drives away in panic leaving his beloved to fend for herself. The gravel road is blocked at a narrow passage by his former partner, Maxwell, who was coming to pay a visit. After a five-month disappearing act, he guesses Heflin might be there!? Heflin bolts from the car and attempts to run up a one-hundred-foot mound of steep, loose stone. Not sure where he was planning to go but in that closing metaphor of his life, the harder he tries running up the hill the more futile it becomes. He is as stationary as a statue. It makes for an easy target.

Note: Moviegoers may have talked about this film in the office break room for a week or so. Some modern assessments of this film view it from a twenty-first-century interpretation, leaving behind the milder mid-twentieth-century production restrictions. The film leaves no doubt about its lurid subject matter and today's "enlightened" language is not a necessity.

THE KILLER IS LOOSE (1956)

Budd Boetticher lays out a well-paced movie and the many on-location scenes add reality to a traditional script. There are enough hypothetical situations to slot the film into a B-movie category. Though the ending is contrived and implausible, it is an incredible performance by Wendell Corey. The ever-competent Joseph Cotton sometimes works hard to make his script believable but without success. He seems irritated throughout the film, perhaps for good reason. His wife, Rhonda Fleming, wants him to change careers because his life is in the balance every day. She is one-dimensional as a self-centered, harping wife. Her lines are delivered rather blandly.

Though initially touted as a hero for tackling one bank robber, Corey is discovered to be part of an inside job, and the police close in on his home expecting a standoff. Cotton accidentally shoots and kills Corey’s wife in the darkened house and the supposed mild-mannered bank teller begins his journey into a mentally unbalanced world. Being a model prisoner hoping for an early release, he is transferred to a prison honor farm. Corey's idea of an early release is to kill a guard and make his escape.

Corey looks deranged, in a trance, as he walks through a middle-class neighborhood looking for the Cotton home. His slow and slightly hesitant gate adds to his unsettling persona. He stops first at John Larch’s house, an old army buddy who used to tease Corey, calling him “Foggy” for his deep voice and for wearing spectacles. An irritating jab from an entire life of ridicule. Larch tries to reason with Foggy, I mean Corey. He suggests he does not have much chance of getting far. Corey seems to understand and remorsefully, momentarily, thinks it over. Corey disagrees. He shoots Larch right through the milk bottle he is holding near his chest as his wife screams in horror. A hungry, unshaven Corey looks away in disgust. Obviously, he is lactose intolerant. Corey uses the wife’s hooded plaid raincoat, white rain boots, and purse to transform into a six-foot-two-inch lady. Just another day in LA. This is certainly a point to burst out laughing if you want. He is quite the fashion plate.

Cotton hastily arranges a “charade vacation” to move his wife to a fellow officer’s home for safety. Not wanting to frighten her, he never mentions that she is Corey’s primary target for revenge. It is a poorly executed ruse by Cotton and Fleming catches on quickly during their road trip in the studio prop car. She gives her husband little support or understanding. It is a standard premise and makes their interaction the low points in the film. After a good verbal thrashing...uh...eye-opener from police wife, Virginia Christine, Cotton’s intentions become clearer to her. She skips out, returning by bus where she suspects Corey may be a passenger. A useless device because the audience recognizes Corey. Besides, Foggy does not have the nerve to get on the bus in that plaid raincoat and white boots.

The police stake out the Cotton home late at night. From a nearby bus stop, Fleming decides to walk the few blocks home. How Corey knew she would be walking home and hiding in the bushes for her is an improbability. They spot a curvaceous redhead walking by and Cotton blasts his fellow officers for not recognizing his wife! Fleming deliberately walks past her home (in a cagey police move) leaving Corey to wonder if he is tracking the right woman. Is that any way to end the film? No. At the last minute, she tries to dash back to her front door with Lady Corey in pursuit. The entire neighborhood is aroused by gunfire. Just another day in LA.

Note: Aside from the horror genre, Corey’s performance newly defines scary. He is not sadistic like Widmark in his screen debut or Mitchum a year earlier. He seems disturbed, and helpless, by his evil deeds. After killing Larch, his wife lies motionless from fainting. Corey looks down at her and in a soft, reasoning voice says, “What else could I do? It was the ONLY thing I could do.” From teller to killer, Corey is mesmerizing and chilling. He is the reason to watch this film and the director thought so too. I can only imagine what audiences thought of Corey during its first run. Just do not call him “Foggy.”

DARK CITY (1950)

Do not let a couple of A-list actors fool you. Hal B. Wallis produced a B-movie. With the likes of Don DeFore, Harry Morgan, who again plays a slightly brain-impaired character, and Jack Webb, with his cutting delivery of snide comments, it could be none other. Add Dean Jagger, Ed Begley, and Wallis’ favorite, Lizabeth Scott, and you have a very competent cast. Charlton Heston in his screen debut barely holds his own. Still, he stands out from all the rest with a rugged, chiseled handsomeness the others do not possess. He delivers a foot-in-the-door performance. There are some typically awkward B-movie segue edits of actors’ faces or actions that do not match the previous frame. And in a casual driving scene in Vegas, they used an obvious stand-in driver for Heston. I guess it was too risky for him.

Needing money after being shut down by the police, Heston and his hustlers' fleece out-of-towner DeFore out of five grand that is not his during a rigged card game. DeFore is so distraught he hangs himself. His protective big brother sets out to kill each hustler one by one. Note the giant emerald ring that keeps getting into tight camera shots. The ring of a psychopath. Heston meets DeFore’s wife, Viveca Lindfors, and they nearly become an item. But the only thing Heston wants is the identity of her disturbed brother-in-law. Heston gets a dealer’s job in Vegas to elude death and be the decoy Jagger can follow. Heston and Scott do not board a studio prop plane but remain in Vegas under assumed happiness.

The item of note is the huge contrast between the acting of Jagger, the police detective, and Heston, a small-time bookie with partners, Morgan, Webb and Begley. Jagger’s whole face is animated with vocals that rise and fall with emotion. He is genuine and believable. Heston, on the other hand, is able to move his mouth. An acting style better suited for some future heroic projects. Heston seems to have been asked to overdub his dialogue at times, being louder and clearer than a co-star, even though he is turned away from the camera. A common practice I am sure.

Note: Studio musician, Trudy Stevens, had her work cut out for her dubbing Scott’s three and a half songs. Unless you enjoy seeing Scott or hearing the chosen songs, you should skip right through these. Her introductory scene and first rehearsal are all that are needed to establish her character. If the lyrics pertained to the plot or another character, this could almost qualify as a musical. But who would watch a musical starring Charlton Heston?

MACHINE GUN KELLY (1958)

This eighty-minute Roger Corman production masks any low-budget thoughts as the money has been spent wisely. It is an entertaining tale of gangsters in the early Thirties. The non-stop opening and period background score get the viewer anticipating what comes next after a slickly planned getaway with a loot hand-off and the usual car swapping. Charles Bronson, in his first film lead, plays the title character who has a death fear rather than a death wish, as if promoting his future movies. Even Bronson tells co-star Susan Cabot, “The fear comes over me...like a cold sweat,” his 1970 movie. Though no one in the cast would be considered Oscar-worthy, Bronson is competent early in his career. Everyone is living up to their salary, including Morey Amsterdam, who probably did not affect the budget that much. Transport yourself to 1958 and that perspective will allow you to watch this movie for its entertainment value. Of which, there is plenty.

Smirking Cabot, perhaps never looking better than in this role, has been the gangster’s “personal agent” from day one and her condescending attitude keeps Bronson under her thumb. All the while smiling as if she is invincible. Her attitude in this movie has become the standard for many criminals or sickos in today’s movies. That evil is a pleasure. In that regard, like it or not, Corman may have broken new ground. On a personal level, I found Cabot’s annoying, bright and pronounced esses irritating. A split-second steel-on-steel sound that sometimes arises from acting out a female character you are not supposed to like. Enunciating, rather than slurring the words, will usually help this affliction. Perhaps the best/worst example of this was Sally Kellerman’s typical delivery. Yet I digress. Equally annoying is her mom, played by Connie Gilchrist. Ma is proud of her criminal daughter and thinks she could do a lot better than Bronson. She belittles him at every opportunity, turning him into the Rodney Dangerfield of gangsters. Gilchrist not only runs her mouth but also a house full of “ladies” for financial support.

Morey Amsterdam, the gang’s lighthearted weasel/stool pigeon, returns with the loot from the film’s opening heist but several thousand are missing. He tries to laugh it off then denies he took any for himself. He lied. Bronson is none too happy. He later plots a meeting with him to talk about another job. Corman throws in an odd premise concerning one of the gang members, Frank DeKova, who was a big game hunter before one arm was mangled by a natural habitat African. He now keeps a mountain lion in a cage. Behind his gas station. It is DeKova’s place where they meet. Bronson stalls the conversation before pushing Amsterdam against the cage and, somehow, the weasel loses an arm to the lion. I doubt any moviegoer saw that coming. Nor found it believable. In what seems like a short time, Amsterdam is back in the business. All smiles and several pounds lighter.

After a botched robbery, thanks to Bronson freezing up when he spots a casket being delivered across his path, he decides to go big. Ma Gilchrist finally will give him some respect. Logically, he takes up kidnapping. He and Cabot abduct an executive’s daughter and her nurse, played by Barboura Morris. Richard Devon completes the kidnapping trio as a sleazeball who cannot help but make a pass at the young nurse. Devon, as “Apple,” is at odds with Bronson. Devon challenges Bronson at gunpoint during a heated exchange. Bronson, in his trademark, clinched teeth and monotone phrasing, his machine gun pointed at him, explains, “Go ahead Apple. And I will peel and core you.” Hey! That is some tough talk. Being another family outing, Cabot’s mom and dad show up at the hideout with food and encouragement. Suddenly Gilchrist does a complete 180, being so kindhearted and gentle toward the little girl, fawning over her. Perhaps Corman wanted to illustrate that over half the people in this movie have serious personal issues.

In an amusing sequence, the police bring the Amsterdam weasel in for questioning. After he leaves the squad room, two officers lose him because “he snuck into the lady's room.” Their diligence casts a cloud over their upcoming promotions. But the weasel, seeking revenge, gives a tip on Bronson’s location via an “anonymous” phone call, which the police immediately recognize as Amsterdam. The gang goes berserk when Amsterdam arrives and I imagine most moviegoers noted that anyone on screen at this point may not make it to the end. DeKova demonstrates his mental problems which, up until this point, outside of the lion behind his gas station, there were no suggestions of his illness. Giving some final Rodney Dangerfield zingers, the police arrive, taunting and belittling Bronson before hauling him off to prison.

Note: In the real 1933, Kelly's arrest was overshadowed by a famous breakout of John Dillinger and his future gang on the same day. But Hollywood has never been too concerned about facts. They like to blur them, though. Their business is entertainment at any cost. The truth has been warped here but an Internet search might square things. It is understandable they would make Bronson a tough guy, even though the real Kelly was not as tough as his wife led people to believe. In this film, "Machine Gun" Kelly is not married.

MISSING WOMAN (1951)

This is a fun way to spend sixty minutes with one of the most abrupt endings in B-moviedom. The story moves along in tidy fashion, leaving much of the 35mm film on the cutting room floor, yet it will task your suspended disbelief sensibilities. Standard night scenes of the era were created with filters along with limited use of studio backdrop driving scenery. There is a fair share of location filming however and one brief chase scene for the auto and highway patrol motorcycle enthusiast.

Penny Edwards plays this title character. We have no background on the character other than she and her husband are on their honeymoon. Their auto is hijacked by two car thieves, James Millican and John Alvin with the former putting a slug in the gallant husband and with a blow to the head, she falls forward on the steering wheel. The depressed horn continues, signaling local officers patrolling the area. Her character then becomes implausibly polished to pull off the potentially deadly scheme she has in mind. Maybe she was a former FBI agent.

While being questioned by the local authorities, Edwards gets the idea to go undercover to locate the killer of her husband and report his location to the police. She has a lot of savvy for this sort of thing and certainly knows how to bamboozle everyone. All we know is she has experience utilizing a fake persona. Five years on Broadway, perhaps. Her assumed photographic memory comes into play as she only briefly reads a prisoner’s rap sheet but has all the details down pat. Apparently, women come in handy as a distraction during a car heist, so she goes from brunette to Edward’s natural blonde hair, nearly a complete reversal of television’s Richard Kimball. She rolls with every conversation like a pro. We are not sure at what point she will feel in over her head with this charade, but you know it is coming.

She gets the honor of meeting Robert Shayne, the boss of the chopshop. In an awkward scene, after she is driven to the shop location to look around and meet all the nice fellows, Alvin bids her goodbye, until later. She walks out the side door and I wonder where she is going. She has no car. She has no place of her own. I imagine her suddenly stopping in the alley and telling herself, "Dumb, dumb, now I've done it!" The director must have dozed off during the dailies.

As usual, there are more bits of unintentionally funny scenes for twenty-first-century replays. Bureau of Missing Persons officer, James Brown, gets a tip on Edward’s whereabouts but it is so screwy, her being undercover and all, he tells his superior he might as well file it in the trash can. The superior, in a serious reply, “Never file anything in the trash can.” Oh...right chief. And another. Edwards knew one thief by the name of Hans and with that to go on the superior officer writes down “Hands” on the backboard. He spends countless hours trying to make sense of the nickname and make a connection with it. James Brown enters the room and erases the “D” and suddenly the mystery is solved.

Police locate Edwards and she begs to go back and help round up Shayne and gang. They seem to think it is quite dangerous to return but tell her to try and stay alive. Bolstered with that encouragement, her missing person’s reward poster is spotted by Alvin and her undercover work appears to be coming to an end. What we learn is that everyone in a chop shop carries a gun. The ending shootout with police includes the trademark Republic Pictures gun sound from their many westerns. And then the film ends abruptly. The director looked at his watch and announced we are done here, folks. Edwards transitions to television in the 1960s and retires. Abruptly.