WITHOUT WARNING! (1952)

This seventy-seven-minute Allart Productions film noir falls into the unknown realm, though the year offered little, if any, exciting crime films as competition. It seems sandwiched neatly between larger-budget crime films from the prior and following years. From a story and script by William Raynor, the film does not break any new ground, but Adam Williams's sensitive performance will not disappoint. Most often in supporting roles, we witness his talent as he embodies his character's subtle mood shifts. He is first-rate. Do not pay much attention to the routine, dated police procedural segments, lab work, and the oft-used supporting voice-over narration. Focus on the camera work by Joseph Biroc, the editing by Arthur Nadel, and the powerful score by Herschel Burke Gilbert. The film was directed by Arnold Laven and shot in a semi-documentary style. There are many elemental details to this fine film, but it stumbles over a weak conclusion.

Williams is handsomely creepy as an unassuming, polite independent gardener. His living quarters add a visual to his pathetic existence—a small, run-down house in a low-income rural neighborhood overlooking the distant City of Angels. Those who are familiar with him would peg him as a serial killer, but his guilt is no surprise to the moviegoer from the opening scene. He returns exhausted with the startling realization of what he has done, yet a gentle grin emerges from his success. And he is compelled to do it all over again. On his belt hangs a leather sheath containing garden shears. He gives a literal meaning to the term “backstabber.” Each month, another blonde female is found with the killer's same modus operandi. The emotionally scarred paranoiac kills, according to a police psychiatrist, in retribution for his unfaithful, equally blonde wife. I can understand his anger over his wife’s infidelity, but to become a serial killer because of this suggests his psychological issues may have been simmering since childhood.

The killer has been very careful to cover evidence of his crimes. In that opening scene, he accidentally rips his suit coat and plans to have a tailor repair it. As the next customer in line, the panic on his face indicates he realizes a piece of his coat was left behind in the motel room. He exits and returns home to incinerate the coat with his blood-stained shirt in his cast-iron stove. The guy is running out of clothes on a monthly basis. But mistakes accumulate. Tying the clues together falls on the shoulders of Edward Binns, the police detective in charge. I thought his character was a bit nonchalant, almost smirking, because he thought the murderer would be caught in short order, because his department was just that good. Yet he is no closer to solving the crimes after three weeks of investigation.

Some effective camera work is revealed through a shaky “hand-held” effect as it follows Williams wandering the streets at night, looking for his next “wife” to kill in a seedy part of town. Dressed in the only suit equipped with a pair of garden shears, he connects with his next victim, Angela Stevens, in Sears Roebuck. No...in a bar. With the same possible outcome after arranging a blind date through social media, she instantly cozies up in her car with him for a night she will not remember. The following morning, Williams exits the car, appearing almost sick to his stomach. Two motorcycle cops spot the car parked illegally under a freeway overpass and investigate. In a panic, Williams gets back to the car with the officer asking what is wrong with “that dead lady.” He is asked to get out of the car, but the officer gets clobbered. Williams takes his gun and later wounds the other officer in pursuit, dumping the revolver beside the highway. Williams has played his hand at this point, and it is only about thirty minutes into the film.

After jumping off the back of a delivery truck, not too inconspicuously, he sprints on foot between rows of commercial loading docks, knocking over crates and dodging trucks to distance himself from the freeway. Mostly shot from an elevated position, Gilbert’s score is especially effective with a jazzy solo piano frantically playing only a few, repeated notes. I have always been impressed with actors of this period who are scripted to run at full speed in slick-soled leather dress shoes on concrete. Of course, unless you were playing a sport, it was what every man wore.

To entrap the murderer, blonde-haired—bleached or otherwise—undercover policewomen are sent to the streets to notice anyone fitting the killer’s tell-tale pattern of behavior. Preferably, before it is too late. Williams connects with one female officer (above) who is not particularly cool with the pressure of undercover work. They are heading to the beach, but he catches view of a car in the rearview mirror and suspects a setup. Deviously smiling, he keeps driving up a winding road while never answering her persistent questions. She is wondering how the beach is accessible at such a high elevation. He stops. She exits, with only a cliff in front of her. In a clever turn, he pretends he is an honorable guy and tells her she can walk home from where they are, throwing her suspicions a curve. He drives to a spot where he sees her enter the tailing detective’s car. Williams confidently smiles. The police department have their man. Finding him is another matter.

Williams purchased the sharpest shears in Orange County from a local greenhouse. The owner's daughter, co-star Meg Randall, is temporarily helping her father's business. “Creepy McWilliams” cannot help but stare...she has blonde hair. Randall becomes his next potential victim. The ending, frustratingly and implausibly, drags on, nearly ruining the intelligence of the film prior to this point. In addition, his final attempted murder goes against the serial killer’s pattern of late-night murders that was established earlier. Nevertheless, Binns and his partner arrive to find only a little neighbor girl standing by Williams' house. The reason for the interaction at all is simply for the girl to glance in the direction of Williams, crouching outdoors behind a discarded bookshelf, slightly off the property, with Randall. Perhaps hoping Williams would make a move, Binns and his partner appear to drive away. Randall finally breaks free and yells for help. As Williams begins to apply his shears, they are no match for six bullets. He was such a nice young man. Viewers only care about his fate, so the film ends instantly.

Note: This United Artists release is recommended, yet certainly not flawless. An unscripted filmed section that has no business in this film is pretty ridiculous, as Williams’ unsolved crimes become so famously exciting that people are confessing left and right for the notoriety. Among others, volunteering for incarceration is an elderly woman crocheting in the police department, or a man on the street pleading to be arrested. Any humor is redeemed during scenes with the police lab chemist. Byron Kane, playing a dry-witted police chemist who enjoys being smarter than the detectives. He pours in a white powder into a glass flask and then a dark liquid. He offers some to a detective who drinks it without hesitation. Kane makes his coffee in a large Retort flask. 

BIG TOWN SCANDAL (1948)

This fifty-eight-minute Pine-Thomas Production for Medallion Pictures Corporation was released by Paramount Pictures. With three films in 1947, this is the last of four based on the long-running radio drama series, “Big Town,” and garnered a revised title when premiered on television. All four entries starred Philip Reed and Hillary Brooke, as the newspaper’s editor and reporter, respectively. This was not filmed in the early Forties and then held back for release. But it seems like it. It moves along well enough but it is an outdated view of juveniles and how basketball was played. You will also witness some of the most unbelievable back-screen in-car footage since the Keystone Cops. This entry, with its highly improbable ending, addresses juveniles who find themselves on the cul-de-sac of life's road.

Brooke volunteers Reed to take custody of the boys. He balks initially but an organized team sport might provide needed discipline for the kids. Fortunately, Reed is an avid basketball player and coaching is his assignment. Volunteers convert the second floor of a dormant building into a gym of sorts. During the initial practice, Brooke provides a surely dated commentary about Reed wearing a sweater. It went beyond my understanding. Maybe men did not typically wear a sweater without a shirt underneath. Perhaps a crew neck sweater was a major faux pas when coaching or a sweater was only meant for female pinups. Reed is unable to hear Brooke’s off-the-cuff remarks yet she is within earshot of two colleagues. She teasingly says, “Nothing like a sweater to bring out the ham in a man, is there?” One colleague replies, staring into space, all dreamy-like, “I wouldn’t know. My wife never wears it.”

Twenty-two-year-old Stanley Clements is some sort of a teenager and the savvy leader of the “wayward five.” The group is arrested for the theft at a sporting goods store with skewered intentions for starting a team sport on their own, figuring no one would notice the brand-new equipment. Some notable actors in the gang are Darryl Hickman, Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer, Tommy Bond—the first Jimmy Olsen from the “Superman” serials—and the lesser-known Roland Dupree. Given any gang's use of slang, Bond's nickname among the other four is “dum-dum.” No cruelty intended. The birth defect was commonly referred to then as “deaf and dumb.” Deaf as in the inability to hear but not dumb as in stupid. Simply the inability to speak, as in “struck dumb.” Bond regularly plays basketball using hand signals with the other team members. Hats off to the screenwriter or producer for including such a character and making him a positive character in the film. He provides a benefit after the championship game, too.

Clements has big-town dreams of owning expensive things after his basketball rehab and generally going astray. He has a history with a gangster, played by John Phillips. He entices Clements into stealing furs stored in the garage below the gym. Savvy Clements wants a cut of the profits. After his cut is actually cut, he wants to part company with Phillips. Not that easy. However, if he throws some games, he will receive kickbacks for his lack of effort.

With the championship game on the line, Clements ignores the gangster’s threats and wins the game in the closing second with a one-handed thrust while falling to the court—after taking a bullet for the team. Somehow. From a seated position and a gun under an overcoat on his lap, one might wonder how the gangster could possibly hit anything smaller than a milk truck. The shot only wounds Clements. Ironically, his team is named the “Big Shots.”

Note: Perhaps no single element dates this film more than when on the basketball court. A faint shadow of today’s fast-paced, aggressive play. These play-actors are not professionals, of course, but it casts a light on the average neighborhood play. Layups are the scoring shots. Free throws are done with both hands in an underhanded “bucket shot” form. No one attempts to block an opponent or attempt to steal the ball, perhaps taking the Seventh Commandment too literally.

FORGOTTEN FILMS: TV TRANSITION

Though typically overshadowed by Hollywood's A-list, there were respectable performances by numerous actors and actresses who never became major film stars. A common occurrence was their transition to the new medium of television, often becoming familiar faces in homes across America. These periodic posts offer insight into their transition.

Dane Clark: Bernard Zanville (1912-98)

Dane Clark was a popular American character actor during the Forties, more often than not playing ubiquitous characters thrust into confrontation or engulfed in dangerous situations on either side of the law. Though possessing A-list qualities he never quite overcame his noteworthy supporting roles. Audiences identified with his spirited characters. A 1946 movie magazine named him the most stylish actor in Hollywood. It was a quick and brief skyrocket to fame during his first ten years in movies yet he spent nearly thirty on television. 

Being cast as the average guy was what Clark wanted all along. It gave him the chance to portray people the way they really are, not as a romantic idol. As a contract player for Warner Bros., he gained fame in supporting roles in significant films like Wake Island (1942), Action in the North Atlantic (1943), and God is My Co-pilot (1945). For the forgettable, Never Trust A Gambler (1951), he played a small-time paranoid gambler followed by a significant lead role as Abe Saperstein, the man who organized the Harlem Globetrotters in, Go Man Go (1954). One might have seen him in The Asphalt Jungle (1950), 99 River Street (1953), The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), or Picnic (1955) except that Clark never screen-tested for these roles, though he was considered.

His versatile television career accelerated by way of a number of anthology series in the likes of The Philip Morris Playhouse (1954) or General Electric (1955). These “mini-movies” benefited from his polarizing characterizations. He garnered a regular role in the series, Justice (1954) and was one of the three lead roles on, Wire Service (1956). He was hitting his stride on the small screen with appearances in numerous popular series like The Twilight Zone (1961), The Untouchables (1962), or Ben Casey (1964). His role on Mannix (1970), brought him into the next decade with a recurring role on The New Perry Mason (1973) as Lt. Tragg, and a lead in the mini-series, Once an Eagle (1976). He had seven different roles in Police Story (1975). His final acting roles were two appearances on Murder, She Wrote (1984).

Note: Clark was born in Brooklyn, New York City, where he graduated from Cornell University and later earned a law degree from St. John's University School of Law in Queens, New York. In hindsight, one might consider, that with his “average” good looks, handsome smile and scrapping persona, the 5’ 10” Clark would be an in-demand actor of the 21st century.

MADONNA OF THE DESERT (1948)

This sixty-minute Republic Pictures release will go by harmlessly. Directed by George Blair of Republic's Western fame, the film is a modern tale of the West. Do not expect a riveting film. Screenwriter, Albert DeMond included a few clichés for those expecting them in a story that centers around a mobster and an ivory Madonna statue. Though inanimate objects do not possess any power, man-made creations have become symbols of hope for many. Such is the case for the lead character in the desert of Southern California. Rarely has ivory been so beneficial.

Sheldon “Nick” Leonard learns about a priceless statue from his inside man working as an antique swindler...er...dealer, who is also a master at creating exact replica statues. Leonard is pretty much the bookends of this film, hardly seen in the sentimental middle section. Speaking of clichés, it is pretty funny when Leonard calmly chastises his female operative, Lynne “Legs” Roberts, about the importance of doing a caper well. Standing over her, with quintessential gangster mannerisms he grabs his shirt sleeve cuffs with his forefinger and thumb under his suit coat and tugs on each sleeve as his shoulders rise up on every poignant word.

Don “Joe” Castle, half Rory Calhoun, half Robert Taylor, is the owner of a Renaissance Madonna statue that has been handed down for generations. He believes it has the power to protect anyone who believes in it. Indeed, the power to heal. It also brings good fortune, sort of like Buddha without the belly rubbing. Helping out on the plantation farm is Paul Hurst, a skeptical, experienced farmhand who quickly sizes up any visitor. He has some of the best lines in the film, usually with spot-on character assessments with humorous results.

Leonard makes the drive up in his Lincoln convertible in hopes of buying the Madonna. Apparently, with no one home, he discovers an unlocked door so he decides to make off with the statue. Castle and Hurst return to find Leonard standing in the back doorway. The shifty mobster instantly becomes an interested “art collector” who is checking its sparkingly jewels in the daylight. Hurst does not believe that one, either. Leonard admires Castle’s faith in the statue. Hurst acerbically fires back at Leonard, 'Joe has the faith. I have a club!' Accepting that the statue is not for sale, Leonard graciously leaves. Castle tells his farm hand he seems like a nice guy. Hurst responds, 'Eh, that guy could give lessons to an eel.'

If the statue cannot be bought, then Leonard is not above stealing it. After meeting mild-mannered Castle, he thinks it should be an easy operation for Roberts, whose assignment will be to befriend Castle and exchange the real statue with a fake one. Leonard tells her that he is one of those 'corny golden rule guys' who probably have never met a real woman in his life. She arrives at the farm on foot after prearranged car trouble, dressed down compared to her first scene. If she is not successful, Leonard will not let her 'play in his yard anymore.' Which is a lot more menacing than it reads, verbally coming from him.

The Madonna has been loaned to an Italian wedding couple for good luck. Castle takes Roberts there to see the statue and for him to honor the family. When she attempts to make the switch, the candles surrounding the altar to the Madonna catch her sleeve on fire. Despite her screams, she shows no after-effects of being even slightly burned. Those in attendance thank Madonna. Roberts thanks her flame-retardant dress. Yet she wonders about that statue. Castle astutely notices a conflict in Roberts’ behavior after her burn notice. She is, in fact, having second thoughts about stealing the statue. In a bit of misguided script logic, Castle tells her, 'Only good people have conflicts. The bad ones aren’t bothered by anything.' He tells her not to worry, he has a dress back at the farmhouse. Never mind your Twenty-First Century thinking. It was his mother’s dress. So it gets worse for Roberts.

Donald Barry, a recent ex-con who used to work for Leonard, also finds out about the statue. He figures Leonard is responsible for his five-year vacation at San Quentin. Stealing the statue under his nose would be sweet revenge. After a brief script disappearance, he returns as the newly hired hand on Castle’s farm. Roberts, wanting to continue playing in Leonard’s yard, digs a hole in Castle’s yard in about seven seconds—with her bare hands—and buries the Madonna. There is no dirt under her nails. Another miracle. The switch is made and once inside the house, Barry absconds with the fake. As script luck would have it, Leonard passes him on the road and then forces Barry to stop, demanding the statue. Leonard recognizes the fake, then the Madonna “flies” toward Barry’s head, knocking him down an embankment. Not finding the car keys that Leonard threw over the cliff, Barry grabs his gun and walks back to the farm. It is dark by the time he arrives to witness a fight between Castle and Leonard's stunt doubles. Barry wounds Leonard, then shoots him twice, 'where it hurts.' Amazingly, Leonard gets off one final shot in retaliation. For all its protective powers, Madonna did not help Leonard or Barry. Help thou my unbelief.

Note: Castle mentions returning from the war as a cripple with mental turmoil. He chose to believe the statue healed him. The cross that Christ died on was simply a wooden device of punishment and death. It has no power in and of itself despite what Hollywood and Bram Stoker would want you to believe. Likewise, in the 1953 movie, “The Robe,” it was Caligula, among many others, who thought Jesus’ robe explained the miracles he performed. But human logic habitually wants to overrule simple truths.