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.

HIGHWAY DRAGNET (1954)

One cannot assess vintage movies with a Twenty-First Century mindset. Understanding the era in which the film was made is only fair. Otherwise, a review could mostly be negative simply because it is "old-fashioned." Truthfully, many B-movies do illicit some implausibilities and unintentional humor back when audiences were more gullible. Likewise, some modern movies still utilize an implausible script despite any perceived realism on screen. Allied Artists signed off on this slightly above-average production. There are numerous tell-tale clichés that Roger Corman co-wrote the script. The whole premise is predictable with little singled out that might be construed as creative. However, thanks to adequate casting and the authenticity of being filmed on location, it should hold your attention. The ominous opening notes of the theme music by Edward Kay resemble numerous crime dramas of the era. The opening bars of the melody are sort of a minor key macabre version of the “Laura” movie theme's first notes, turned inside-out. Naturally, Richard Conte is commendable. A fine actor who may have simply needed a better agent. He plays a recently released Korean War veteran who visits Las Vegas where whatever happens in Vegas stays with Conte.

Conte meets Mary Beth Hughes, whose character used to be somebody. Half drunk, she misinterprets Conte's badly versed compliment and loudly demands an apology because he hurt her feelings. It happens all the time today. While hitchhiking his way out of town, he is arrested and brought back for questioning by Reed “Joe White Eagle” Hadley. Hughes has been murdered and there were plenty of witnesses who jumped to conclusions about what may have happened. Conte can take refuge in that there is not yet any social media. He is hot under the collar and, after a few probing questions, stereo-typically slugs Hadley, holds his deputies at gunpoint, shoots one patrol car tire flat, then steals the other Nash patrol car. These self-inflicted bits rack up a lot of violations.

He helps two stranded motorists get their car started and expects to get a ride as thanks. As a professional photographer, Joan Bennett is cool to the idea but her young assistant, Wanda Hendrix, would like to have a hunk along. Bennett's expression while riding in the convertible looks like she smells roadkill. Perhaps her upper lip is overloaded with lipstick or she is just disgusted by life in general. Her esses and “r” pronunciations are Barbara Walters-lite. I digress. Conte tries to fake his persona but the ladies are suspicious. They try to leave him behind at a diner but the car keys are dangling from Conte's hand. He is not much for small talk after this.

Much of the “excitement” is typically resolved with clichéd staging. These scenes make up the bulk of the film. Getting through a sweat-inducing roadblock or stealing a car that happens to have the keys in the visor to name only two. Perhaps the most preposterous is when Conte commands a delivery driver at gunpoint to move his ice cream truck across the highway to block the chasing police. Not a fan of round tires, he shoots them flat. Not as flat as the surrounding desert terrain yet Joe White Eagle cannot go around the truck. Apparently, because of a dust danger. He is completely bamboozled. If you have not laughed or cringed by now, the ending should do it.

Conte has inherited from his family a house on coastal waters that is dry when the tide is out and when the tide is in every room has its own wading pool. A family heirloom. It is his final hope to connect with a fellow veteran, his only alibi on the night of Hughes' murder. Hadley—he finally had the courage to go around that truck—arrives to take a Bennett bullet in the shoulder yet he treats it like a mere BB gun hit, rubbing the wound with his fingers. “Gee Willikers, that stings.” Conte chasing Bennett in apparent slow motion through knee-deep water is...well...not as funny as Bennett, in a near panic of drowning in waist-deep water, with her arms held up as if preparing to signal an NFL field goal. It makes for a silly but revealing ending befitting this effort to produce a film that has not stood the test of time.

Note: Once again, ignore the poster's enticing content. The Art Director must have gotten an earful about selling this dull film. Conte is not a “thrill-killer” nor do we see any female with a strap around her neck. The cast never drove a Kaiser Manhattan, either, seen bursting through a roadblock.

99 RIVER STREET (1953)

This time around, John Payne is a tough prizefighter in another film for director, Phil Karlson. A familiar tale of a “man against the world.” George Zuckerman's story is pretty far-fetched, certainly not routine. If this Edward Small production falls short of being a great movie, the spot-on performances allow one to overlook weaknesses. Many films seem to be full of clichés, however. The budgeted studio sets with perpetually wet city streets were a standard device to give a city life. The painted or rear-projected buildings are present to add depth. There seems to be a very noticeably odd “processing” during the harbor climax scene which looks like a stage scrim has been set up in front of cargo ships. 

Though Payne starred in a gritty, career-changing film before, he is believable as a guy beaten down inside and outside the ring. Payne is on a career roll, leaving behind his lighter characters. There is never a dull moment. The boxer's volatile temper, blunt dialogue, and realistic action catapult the film above the average film noir. I found the opening boxing scenes more believable than the over-the-top Rocky Balboa bouts. Though both films seem to use the same sound effect of punching a cardboard box with a throw pillow inside. Because of the potential permanent eye damage during his championship fight, Payne's heavyweight career comes to an end. Three years on he is now a taxi driver with dreams of owning his own service station. His wife, Peggie Castle, is a nagging, unsympathetic wife who blames him for her lack of social importance and her personal career crusher. Owning a lowly gas station is the last round for her. Castle is already two-timing with a jewel thief, Brad Dexter. No secret to Payne. 

Jay Adler moonlights as a backroom jewel fence, incognito as a pet shop owner. He refuses to pay off Dexter for his latest jewel delivery, not only for killing the original owner but primarily because he brings Castle into the mix. Adler tells him there is no deal if a woman is involved. Emotional attachments have a way of altering the end game. Dexter takes his “advice” and her cold body is found in the back of Payne's cab. Not exactly a standard fare.  

Playing an aspiring actress, Evelyn Keyes has two supporting roles with Payne. Besides being his co-star, she is a frequent taxi fare. When she finds out about his predicament she wants to help but he is reluctant to get her involved. Keyes' attractiveness lies in her character portrayals more than being naturally beautiful. It is no concern whether her face is filmed from one side or the other. Jack Lambert, Adler's muscle, below, has a good turn as well. He has developed a sense of humor despite his line of work. Calls everyone at gunpoint, “kiddies.” His fight scene with Payne is worth noting. Suspecting he is in with Dexter, he slaps Payne around from behind who is slowly coming to a full boil. Lambert becomes his punching bag. He completely did not anticipate the jackhammers hiding at the end of Payne's arms. Poor Lambert is repeatedly blasted over furniture and becomes wall décor, after a fashion. It is well-choreographed, vicious, and believable. 

Adler and crew are confused about Payne's supposed involvement in a jewel heist. He is picked up on 99 River Street and they need answers to a few questions. After the butt-end of a revolver from a revengeful Lambert, Payne tells Adler about his frame-up then all bullets have Dexter's name on them. Continuing to hone her acting skills, Keyes' role-playing comes in handy as she lures Dexter out of the diner. Spotting Payne outside, Dexter makes a run for it with Payne taking a bullet in one arm. One arm is plenty and Dexter is soon down for the count. 

DRIVE A CROOKED ROAD (1954)

This lower-budget Columbia Pictures drama succeeds thanks to its excellent cast and screenplay. A better-than-average B-movie centering around an automotive theme. It starts off in a realistic fashion, hiding the plot initially with racing sequences filmed on location in southern California. Outside of these scenes, a studio Jaguar XK120 prop car is being hounded by rear-projected cars, however. Scenes are also filmed at an actual automotive repair shop and it is an eye-full for foreign car fans and Detroit's contribution as well. Under echoes of the garage's concrete interior, each vehicle is lined up in its stall as their tune-up awaits.

Mickey Rooney is first-rate as a naive master mechanic and part-time racer of the aforementioned Jaguar. He lives and breathes automobiles leaving little time for socializing. Throwing a wrench into his garage is Dianne Foster, who brings her car in specifically asking for Rooney to work on it. The very next day, Foster again has “car trouble” with her British Hillman―probably expected―but Rooney has to drive to her apartment this time. Being the perfect gentleman, he gets her car started with no more than a thank you expected. She quickly gets him started, twisting him so tightly around her finger it is cutting off the circulation. He is unpretentiously smitten by the amazon female. She is a woman with interior...uh...ulterior motives. Kevin McCarthy and Jack Kelly finish out this deceitful trio.

McCarthy―looking surprisingly like Max Headroom at times―has been scouting local race tracks for a fast driver, though his interest has nothing to do with competitive racing. He and Kelly single out Rooney as their ideal unassuming candidate. Like diesel fuel in sub-zero weather, the plot thickens. Along the way, most of Kelly's lines are witty remarks usually at Rooney's expense. Script lines perfectly befitting Kelly's condescending delivery. McCarthy wants Rooney to drive a crooked, dangerous road in twenty minutes that would safely take forty. In mock fascination, he pumps up Rooney's ego on what it would take to do this. Puzzled, Rooney cannot figure out their intense interest in why twenty minutes is so important. He immediately yanks the handbrake on their getaway plan. McCarthy smooths things over and suggests he see Foster before deciding, whose prearranged story ignites Rooney's spark plugs again.

Showing sincere remorse for towing Rooney along, Foster bluntly spills her guts much to McCarthy's ire. Rooney knows a bit too much at this point. It is Kelly's job to eliminate him along the coastal roadway. As an excellent driver, Rooney also knows how to roll a car. Rooney survives and stumbles back to McCarthy's with Kelly's gun. The one in the poster that suggests Rooney carries it with him all the time, being a hired killer or something. The ending minute leaves the story unresolved but it does not take a certified master mechanic to figure out one.

Note: The studio prop car's “driving” sequences are pretty funny during their shortcut's dusty escape. The studio's stunt driver and sound department put on an impressive show, however. Rooney's faking of the prop car steering wheel suggests he understands and respects the car's limits. He supposedly hits 100 mph at one point with Kelly hanging on for dear life in the back seat as the rear-projected scenery swifts abruptly left to right, tires squealing in the dirt. Not as wacky as W.C. Fields' climactic driving in The Bank Dick, but nonetheless, amusing.

DOUBLE DEAL (1950)

This is the first picture produced by Bel-Air Productions, a studio known for B-movies and location shooting to retain a low budget. There is nothing unique here. Even the film's title was used before and since. There is the usual frame-up, someone getting beat up yet nothing ever heats up. Richard Denning is easy to like and adds the only spark to this clichèd drama. Marie Windsor receives top billing, in a role against type as a decent soul. Still, it is a pretty enjoyable romp thanks to a talented cast including a smarty-hurdy-gurdy monkey.

Out-of-work engineer Denning, is looking for a job in Oklahoma oil country. Thinking he might at least triple his nine dollars, he joins a backroom gambling table after meeting hostess, Windsor. James Griffith wins most of the time because his dice are loaded. After losing, Denning calmly walks over and removes his nine bucks from Griffith's pile of cash. Windsor and her boss take notice of his bold move and learning of his engineering background, they hope to persuade him to help her boss's oil well turn a profit before it defaults to his sister, and Griffith's girl, Fay Baker, as per their father's will. Baker is a manipulator by profession and there is no love lost between her brother. Using all her feminine wiles, she tries to get Denning to change sides. Griffith and Baker stoop low enough to make her will a reality, setting up Denning to take a murder rap. 

No sooner than Baker can say, "My will be done," she is shot and killed by, apparently, the cameraman, as the audience is left to guess who pulled the trigger. Thanks to the monkey's ninja move, Windsor's life is spared from any remaining bullets. The instantly sober attorney was planning to eliminate all family members, claiming the well for himself. Never trust a fake drunk. Windsor gushes over Denning as their oil well strikes a pose.

Note: Taylor Holmes plays the attorney who represented the father before he died. He lives with a talented, unemployed organ grinder monkey. His character is annoying for his perpetual drunk routine. Since the beginning of Hollywood's double standards, stumbling drunks have been either harmless, lovable creatures or used for comic relief. In reality, alcoholics are pathetically in need of help. Even television's Otis Campbell. 

THE LAS VEGAS STORY (1952)

Howard Hughes puts his trademarks on this eighty-eight-minute RKO Radio Pictures film, what with the flying sequences and microscopic closeups of his leading lady. A film that is hardly unknown, it lost money at the box office. However, with the pairing of Victor Mature and Jane Russell, it is hard to ignore. Despite some inferior projects, Mature never embarrassed himself. He is his usual flawless self, yet his co-star, Vincent Price, takes a back seat to no one. Throw in Hoagy Carmichael and you have the potential for fine entertainment. It was directed by Robert Stevenson and required the trio of Robert Sparks, Howard Hughes, and Samuel Bischoff to produce it.

With similar “dangerous” facial features, testy pout, and a noteworthy sneer, Russell may remind one of the female Elvis. She could hardly be called flat except for her adequate acting and one-dimensional delivery here. Her eyes are generally expressionless and her potentially witty comebacks are not as pointed as in the superior, His Kind of Woman, a year earlier, with Robert Mitchum. Nonetheless, she had one of the most beautiful smiles in Hollywood. But lately, those smiles only happen when she is around Happy, played by Carmichael, the casino pianist. Thanks to his delivery, he lightens the film considerably, if not frequently. His opening narration sets up the background for the film's stars prior to their appearance. Hoagy's folksy tone of a “country cool cat” is endearing. He performs an early “rap” song, “The Monkey Song.” The difference with his rap is that he uses an actual melody. The 1938 song, “I Get Along Without You Very Well” is reused for this film. Russell is filmed only from the waist up while singing, providing another comparison to Elvis. But with Hughe's opposite intentions.

Russell's husband, Price, insists on vacationing in Las Vegas, determined to play the tables in hopes of winning enough to pay his debts. He is decidedly a character with selfish motives. Russell preferred a flight anywhere else from fears of running into her old flame, Mature, now a lieutenant with the Sheriff's Department. Throughout most of the film, he and Russell get along without each other very well due to their parting years before, the result of poor communication skills. Russell's 100 grand necklace becomes Price's gambling collateral with the casino owner attempting to secure it. Getting off the same flight as the newlyweds is "Mr. Smarmy" himself, Brad Dexter. He has been assigned by his insurance company to watch Price and Russell's...uh...necklace. Dexter slimes toward the dark side about halfway through the film.

The climax, filmed at the former Tonopah Army Airfield, was the first car and helicopter chase sequence in a movie. Flying twice through an open hanger was a groundbreaking sequence and I imagine amazed the audience. Dexter's useless driving around in circles in his attempt to evade the helicopter is pretty silly. The foot chase between him and Mature is a high-wind final confrontation yet typical of the era. Price is no longer a murder suspect but is found guilty of embezzlement to please the audience. An appropriate wrap to the film. But wait. It is not quite over. After two murders, theft, and an extended chase scene, one might not expect to have another song thrown in. Written for this film and Mature's character, “My Resistance Is Low” is an okay Carmichael song but hard to sit through because of Russell's syrupy delivery and slurred esses. I digress. There will be divorce papers to sign and assuming they can keep their personal blowups restrained, Russell and Mature may roll the dice one more time. Viva Las Vegas!

WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS (1950)

This film hardly falls into the unknown category for any film noir fan. It is generally highly regarded despite a familiar B-movie path. Directed and produced by Otto Preminger with a screenplay by the typically great Ben Hecht, it follows the story of another cynical detective who hates criminals to the core. Subconsciously because his late father was a gangster in his own time. His methods of getting a criminal to talk are not by the book and the Inspector, Robert Simon, in his first film role, repeatedly calls him on the carpet for it.

Dana Andrews plays the aforementioned detective where violence seems to be around every corner. Murder suspect and gambler, Craig Stevens, who is particularly soused, strikes Andrews across the jaw then he is decked, hitting his head on the floor. Andrews tries to wake him but he is out. Permanently. Andrews turns white with fear. He will surely lose that parking spot in front of headquarters! When he finds out Stevens was a war hero and the silver plate in his head is what killed him, he feels even worse. Things get dicier after Andrews discovers that Gene Tierney was his wife. Andrews' web of deceit plunges him deeper into self-loathing. Andrews devises a plan to detour the manslaughter rap.

Gary Merrill is Andrew's gangster nemesis. It was Andrew's father who set Merrill up in the mob. His character is somewhat in the mold of Richard Widmark's screen debut role, though not mentally unstable. Cool, calm and polite with nice threads, Merrill's quirk is his apparent addiction to nasal inhalers. A medicinal gimmick that seems to only afflict the underworld. Hiring Neville Brand as a heavy, here doing double duty as a massage therapist, was also a customary gimmick during this period.

Tierney was another actress of the era with a slight overbite. This physical “feature” is noticeable only when she speaks. Which is her every scene. I guess they cannot all be Grace Kelly. I digress. Her father, Tom Tully is a cabbie who has been understandably angry with his good-for-nothing son-in-law, Stevens. Because of this and his whereabouts near the time of Stevens' demise, he is inadvertently accused of homicide. Newly promoted Lieutenant, Karl Malden, is convinced Tully is the killer despite Andrews' attempt to throw the killing in Merrill's direction.

At his personal sidewalk ends, Andrews is abducted and driven to the gangsters' hideout. There is a creepiness of being helplessly trapped inside a car as it is hydraulically lifted to the upper level of a parking garage. No dialogue. No music. Just the sound of the lift's mechanics. Feeling more despondent and no better than his father, he hopes to be killed so the authorities can at least pin one murder on Merrill, who is not taking the bait. The gangsters hightail it when the sirens get louder and they lock Andrews in the garage. In their hasty retreat, the gang forgot about an unlocked rooftop door, and out pops Andrews. He stops the elevator's descent between floors with Merrill and his gang being arrested.

Andrews had written a confession letter to be opened in the event of his death. Simon, now all smiles and grateful to Andrews for bringing down the mob, indicates there is no reason, thankfully, to open it. Awkward. He wants the letter read anyway. In front of Tierney. The Inspector's smile is turned upside down. Andrews will have time to contemplate his future career move. Perhaps security detail at a Woolworth's. 

QUICKSAND (1950)

Mickey Rooney's characterization is legitimate as a young auto mechanic—an occupation he returns to four years later in, Drive A Crooked Road—who longs for a lifestyle he cannot afford in somewhat of an ego boost. Throughout the film, he provides his inner thoughts in voice-overs. His innocent borrowing of twenty dollars from the garage's cash register is only the beginning. Though he has every intention of paying it back the next day, his descent into crime pulls him down deeper as each misdeed gets riskier. The twenty dollars is soon forgotten. Rooney improves this film and keeps it from sinking. This film buried Andy Hardy for good.

Not helping is dangerous Jeanne Cagney, who is temptation personified. Saying she is well-known in the neighborhood is an understatement. Peter Lorre, the seedy owner of a penny arcade, could teach a detailed history class on Cagney's past. Barbara Bates plays the wholesome, unappreciated good girl who has taken her relationship with Rooney seriously. She rounds out the quartet of main characters. Like anyone not taking responsibility for their actions, Rooney's audible inner thoughts express his disgust with the “bad luck” that has befallen him since stealing twenty dollars from his employer's cash draw. Soon the twenty bucks are long forgotten. Things get so bad that Rooney ends up robbing a soused bar patron near the arcade and Lorre blackmails him over the robbing and in exchange for his silence, requests a new car. Between a rock and a hard place, the mechanic steals one from his garage. Cagney hatches a plan for Rooney to steal money from Lorre's arcade to pay for the car. She feels entitled to half so she can buy that mink coat she has lusted over. A driving suspense theme kicks in during the theft. A nightwatchman spots someone inside the arcade and fires a shot. Within all the darkness, a light bulb turns on for Rooney who parts company with the female quicksand. He offers what funds are left to his unethical boss who promptly attempts to call the police. The ominous suspense theme returns with good effect as Rooney viciously stops his boss from speed-dialing. He panics and runs.

Bates returns to see Rooney and the film to the end. She is head over heels in love with Rooney no matter what. In a surprising bit of unlikely good fortune, he hijacks a car driven by a sympathetic lawyer. The most unbelievable sequence in the script. After long driving advice, Rooney sends Bates and the lawyer back inland while he tries to sail south until things cool off. He quite literally, misses the boat but does not miss a bullet from one officer. The lawyer's car does a U-turn when its radio reports that Rooney's boss is recovering. The good news. The bad news is that Rooney is off to prison for a few years. All because of a lousy twenty bucks! Life is not fair, man. Bates promises to wait and I believe her. She is determined to get married.

Note: This United Artist release has an unintentionally amusing ending as three extras are seen peering in the car's rear window, jockeying for a better view inside the studio prop car, above. Those extras appear to be the first "photo bombers."

CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS (1953)

The slow-motion dissolving opening credits of a shimmering font seem to establish a whimsical tone. The orchestral music crescendos gently as each main credit slowly appears then decrescendos as credits fade. Then the cycle repeats. With a complicated lead character, this movie needs to be watched more than once to catch all the nuances that make this low-budget film work. The film's pacing in the first thirty minutes was a bit frustrating, however. The cinematography by John Russell is certainly a highlight. The exception is the "Keystone Cops" rear projection of 1930s traffic as seen from a speeding (studio) police car's windscreen. The wacky, blurred footage embarrasses an otherwise solid, yet slightly quirky, film. The sets nicely masquerade for location filming yet, according to the film, all businesses apparently close after dusk. The insomniac city is Chicago and Chill Wills gives it voice during one day in the Windy City. 

Young is strangely nonchalant with his unhappy lot in life, thinking it will be his last day as a policeman. He has grown weary of his job and restless with his marriage of an interminable three years. Few could play nonchalantly better, though. It took me a while to realize the early references to “Pops” was more than everyone's affectionate term for a senior policeman. Young plays his son, carrying the family torch in the line of duty. Young's brother, on the other hand, is tempted to a wilder side by local magician turned hoodlum, William Talman. Rather odd since the magician angle is irrelevant to the movie unless he prepared those title credits. Talman has indelibly etched himself into another film, this time as a smooth and calculating criminal mind. Edward Arnold, the powerful crooked attorney, is a "maker of men." Talman is one and he hopes Young, being unhappy as a lowly policeman, will be his next success. The attorney will pay Young handsomely if he transports Talman to Indiana for protection. In reality, it would get him out of Arnold's hair. What there is of it. Arnold's wife, Marie Windsor, has her own scheme.

In the mix is an “exotic” dancer, Mala Powers, to whom Young is not that committed either. He would like to be but it is complicated. She plays an aspiring ballerina whose bit of bad fortune placed her in the company of Tutu-less dancers. Also in love with Powers is perhaps the film's most unusual character. Wally Cassell plays the club's unique entertainer whose job behind an elevated glass case outside the nightclub is to fool the public into believing he is actually a mechanical man. With his face painted silver, under a top hat and black tuxedo, he performs in shifts for the equivalent length of this movie---ninety minutes---with fifteen-minute breaks in between. This quirky character is the only witness to a murder by Talman outside the club. And Cassell's single tear exposes the truth.

There is a nice ending twist of confusion for Talman. The father takes the police radio call in place of his son. Talman is stunned to learn father is there not to take him to the Hoosier state but to handcuff and arrest him. With the devastating realization of Talman's heartless action, Young's career commitment and life purpose hit new heights, no thanks to Wills. The ending is the typical gunfire exchange while running to total exhaustion. Chicago's electrified elevated commuter rail system is a big concern as both men sidestep around them in the shadows. 

Spoiler Alert: When Chill Wills pops up out of nowhere to be Gig Young's substitute patrol partner, the viewer and Young wonder where he came from. It is a good bet this film is the only fantasy noir released by Republic Pictures or any other studio. It is another quirky element and I am not sure it even has a point. Young does not seem to be affected by any of Will's angelic wise counsel. Nearing the film's end, once he is confident Young has his life on course, he vanishes just as mysteriously as he appeared.

Notes: A couple of officers refer to Talman as a “who’d.” It was an era when "hoodlum" was truncated to "hood" as slang. Other movies of the era may use the same term. Finally, Wally Cassell may be best known as the soldier with constant amorous intentions in the notable 1945 film, Story of G.I. Joe.