THE MAN ON THE EIFFEL TOWER (1950)

This American, eighty-seven-minute noir mystery released by RKO Radio Pictures was directed by Burgess Meredith. He also stars, along with two other high-caliber actors, Charles Laughton and Franchot Tone. The original director, Irving Allen, gladly departed after a barrage of tomatoes was thrown his direction, chief among them, Laughton. The film was somewhat of a team effort as it was co-produced by Tone and Allen. A minor but noticeable point, there are no French-speaking actors within a three-mile radius of the Eiffel Tower. Even a local newsboy speaks perfect English. The fine music score by Michel Michelet provides appropriate themes, especially the first ascent up the tower. Ansco Color's overall "burnt-sienna" murkiness certainly degrades the enjoyment of this complicated, suspenseful thriller with a disjointed story and jarring edits. Still, it would not be difficult to imagine that this film might have been a celluloid classic in more capable hands. In my astute assumptions, few will bother watching this film. Hench, a few spoilers below.

The story begins with a mousey Meredith, again wearing thick eyeglasses, a prop that may have made an impression on him. There is at least one other film role where he is cast with “coke-bottle” lenses, though his most noted role was as the bookworm in the television series, The Twilight Zone. Similar to that episode, his lenses get broken after stumbling, this time over a corpse in the dark. Out of the shadows appears a pair of slacks with shoes or feet wrapped in burlap. Perhaps this unexplained detail was to establish an abnormal individual. Let the speculations begin. He taunts Meredith with his commands, and the viewer is (literally) in the dark as to their connection or why Meredith is at this location. Leaving behind numerous fingerprints and a pair of broken spectacles, Meredith is arrested for the murder.

The manic-depressive, egocentric intellectual medical student wash-out, and Meredith's mystery man is Tone. A creepy sociopath responsible for the corpse, the wealthy aunt of the spineless Robert Hutton, who nervously paid to have it done. As a “favor” to tie up any loose ends, Tone also kills the aunt’s maid, hoping to pin both murders on the unsuspecting Meredith. Blackmailing Hutton for a chunk of the inheritance is also part of his scheme. In a subplot seemingly lifted from a separate movie, Hutton completes an infidelity trio with wife, Patricia Roc, and Jean Wallace. Roc is quite aware of her husband's affair with the latter, and the ladies exchange sarcastic barbs, like two sisters who do not get along. 

Mush-mouthed Laughton plays the pipe-smoking Jules Maigret, a fictional French police detective created by writer Georges Simenon. Laughton usually steals every scene with facial expressions and body language, sometimes humorously, as in the handwriting analysis scene regarding Tone’s notes. He does not believe in Meredith’s guilt, so he arranges his prison break to have him tailed. To Laughton’s ire, his men lose him after he jumps from a bridge into the river. I guess it never occurred to them to follow his slow swim along the river’s bank and wait for him to come ashore. Laughton methodically goes about his investigation while Tone taunts and mocks his progress. First in phone calls and messages, then in person, in the tower’s open-air restaurant. Dining together, we first witness Tone’s eccentricity with his diatribe against Laughton. The tower is his sanctuary and a metaphor for being above everyone else. He suggests to Laughton that, with his seeming lack of evidence, he will never be caught.

There are a few exciting moments in the film. The first has a young William Phipps chasing Tone on Parisian rooftops. The climactic tower scene also makes for good filmmaking, but suggesting Tone can climb preposterously fast in leather dress shoes on the angled grids of iron is beyond belief. The only thing more unbelievable is having the introverted, first-time tower climber, Meredith, rapidly chase him up the tower in retribution. The ending is not what you might expect after the killer ascends to the tower’s top platform. Laughton asks him to climb down. Yet knowing Tone’s self-imposed courage and importance, maybe just let him jump.

BENEATH THE 12-MILE REEF (1953)

20th Century Fox distributed this one-hundred-two-minute, big-budget film, the third motion picture made in CinemaScope. This fad was a stand-out element of the film. It alone may account for its box office success, though its two young co-stars probably contributed. The widescreen format enhances some nice underwater sequences by the film's cinematographer, Edward Cronjagerand, and his occasional sunset or sunrise near Tarpon Springs, Florida. But on terra firma, it is a routine romantic drama centered around family heritage amid ‘the most dangerous of all occupations, sponge diving.’ Not firefighters. Not police officers. Not bomb disposal personnel. Intertwined is an ethnic war between Greek culture and sponge pirates, the Conch fishermen. 

As the credits open, the composer of the film may stump you, but the music becomes unmistakably Bernard Herrmann. The harp played a role in a number of his scores, and it is used appropriately during some underwater sequences. There is one scene, however, where the score is nearly overkill as symbols crash and French horns soar as we watch two lowly fishing boats creep out into the gulf during a calm sunrise. But without a doubt, Herrmann’s score enhances the film.

Swashbuckling Gilbert Roland, with shirt unbuttoned forming a V, is in command of the film in its early going, making it more fun. His swagger and confidence are indelibly imprinted on his son, Robert Wagner, who, oddly, along with his on-screen sister, is the only Greek in the film without a hint of an accent. But Wagner’s curly studio permanent is pure family lineage. Completing the trio of spongers is the heavily accented J. Carrol Naish with some humorous lines.

The twenty-three-year-old Wagner catapulted to fame during these years and shared top billing with Roland and Terry Moore. There is little doubt that the two young stars have a destiny. One could rightfully assume they anchored off-screen as well. Moore had a ten-year advance on Wagner’s career, though only a year separated their births. Eventually, Wagner’s popularity overwhelmed Moore’s, but both were celebrities rather than acting powerhouses. Wagner does alright in this role, especially in the first half. They both pretend to be in their late teens, with Moore giggling a lot in the early going. Like a number of others in Hollywood, she seems aware that the cameras are rolling and works hard to make a screen impression after hearing the words, “Action!” from the director, Robert Webb. I am sure their equally young fans were not aware of these occasional shallow performances.

Richard Boone, looking vibrant and fit, plays Moore’s father and the “Conch Master” over his crew. They do not want any Greeks diving in “their waters.” After Roland gathered his day’s worth of sponges, Boone’s crew, on Peter Graves’ lead, intercepts and steals their take. Roland laughs off the theft, knowing he will get revenge on Boone. They come to an understanding. Graves is navigating to marry Moore, but becomes a squeaky third wheel beside the cocky Wagner. Graves is jealous of the young punk and gives him a beating as a warning shot over his brow.

On his final pre-scuba gear dive, Roland succumbs to a deadly case of the bends. Wagner confidently soldiers on. During another sponging, Roland’s family boat accidentally goes up in flames. Graves tries to put the fire out with no success. Angry Wagner then steals the Conch boat and, with the help of Moore, adapts it for more sponge baths...uh...diving. They are a bit giddy, like in an Andy Hardy film where Rooney and Garland pull together a neighborhood show as a fundraiser. On Wagner's first diving experience, he encounters a large octopus. Posters of the day over-emphasize this as the film's major element. It is a very believable, however, with Wagner surviving with only a couple of hickeys. 

The climactic ending brings sudden character turnabouts. Moving in on their stolen boat for another sponge robbery is the conch crew. Boone, previously level-headed and showing sympathy for Roland’s short script, now wants his daughter back, "stolen" by Wagner. Yet to everyone's surprise, including the audience, they have already gotten married. Somewhere. Once alongside, Graves jumps on board, going at it with Wagner again as they go overboard. A lot of splashing later, the young punk ends up saving Graves from drowning in a seaweed entanglement. Back on deck, Boone is hesitant to accept Wagner, but Graves reminds him that he just saved his life. Oh, yeah. To dissolve Boone's displeasure, Wagner confidently exudes, "Look who you got for a son-in-law. I'm a very beautiful young man!" The Greek-Conch hatred dissolves instantly into laughter and acceptance. Sponge Conch, LLC is formed.

Note: Harry Carey, Jr., a frequent co-star on Boone’s popular television western series, plays one of his sons here. Boone’s show, on more than one occasion, also featured two other characters from this film, Jay Novello and Jacques Aubuchon. The studio assigned the brief, uncredited opening narration to the unknown Roy Harold Scherer, Jr., aka Rock Hudson.

TRAPPED (1949)

This seventy-eight-minute film arose from a story written by George Zuckerman and Earl Felton. It was directed by a master of realism, Richard Fleischer, and released by Eagle-Lion Films, the poster child of the semi-documentary. The moody cinematography was by Guy Roe, who would, a year later, film Lloyd Bridges in The Sound of Fury, then later the quintessential B-movie crime noir, Armored Car Robbery. Trapped was produced by the oldest of the "Seven Little Foys," Bryan. Like many low-budget crime films of the era, it uses voice-over narration to inform the audience about the thoroughness of law enforcement. In this case, the United States Treasury Department shut down a counterfeit ring. The score was by the dependable Sol Kaplan, whose opening measures sound like a cross between a weekly television private investigator theme and an old movie serial.

Though there may be familiar faces throughout the film, many of whom became prolific on the small screen, it really centers around the characters of Lloyd Bridges, Barbara Payton, and John Hoyt. As an up-and-coming leading man with a casting agent earning his salary, Bridges gets top billing. He was very busy during 1941-42 with thirty-eight films with mostly uncredited roles, learning the ropes. Leading roles became more common after the war. Not classically handsome, his closely set eyes are offset by a distinctive voice, a winning smile, and an abundance of charisma. The established character actor, Hoyt, has nearly identical screen time, however, and is third-billed. It is a nifty crime tale of treasury agents wanting to enlist the help of a counterfeit operative, Bridges, who is currently a model inmate in an Atlanta prison. With seven more years on his sentence, he could be released much earlier if he cooperates to help find the counterfeit plates and those who are circulating the phony bills. The savvy, arrogant, gum-chewing Bridges essentially tells them what they can do with their offer. 

The screenplay pulls off a couple of clever double twists near the beginning. Nighttime finds Bridges on a bus headed for Kansas City, handcuffed to a Deputy Marshall. A car pulls up alongside the bus in the passing lane, the driver looking for Bridges. They make eye contact, then Bridges grabs the revolver of the dozing detective and commands him to “take the jewelry off” and exits the bus for the sedan, driven by Richard Karnes. The whole “escape” was planned in advance with Bridges, giving legitimacy to a phony AP wire story. The officer’s gun was not loaded, and Karnes is a federal agent. During an overnight stay in a motel, at the opportune moment, Bridges initiates a fist-fight with Karnes. Apparently suspecting as much, Karnes “throws the boxing match” to let Bridges be tracked to Los Angeles.

We first see Hoyt as a frequent Los Angeles nightclub visitor, trying to pour on the charm to the cigarette girl, Payton, Bridges’s girl. She assumes he must own two or three oil wells because of his generous ten-dollar tips. Hoyt is actually an experienced undercover Secret Service agent posing as a racketeer. Bridges vouches for Hoyt and enlists him to help “convert” a real twenty-five grand into a quarter million in fake bills.

Hoyt reports to his superior, Russ Conway. In Conway’s first scene, we see him taking notes over the phone, handwriting gibberish on a notepad. Surely one of the worst executions of fake handwriting in film. Like the undecipherable notes taken in a college class while suspended over a cliff of sleep. Then, a few days later puzzled as to why the exam score was so below average. I digress. Admittedly, play-acting is rarely filmed authentically. In another Conway moment, an oft-used scene showcases the clever and effective undercover work during the phone booth era. In order to touch base on the agency's progress, Conway is seated in a diner as Hoyt strolls in. Conway steps to a booth and places a call to the adjoining booth to get Hoyt’s report. A local call.

The counterfeit exchange is set with “the big guy,” James Todd, who owns the counterfeit plates. Todd is no Ted de Corsia. He is too easy-going, naive, and skittish to be believed as the ruthless boss of operations. Rather humorous that undercover agents are placed in several locations within running distance of the exchange location. I assume the homeowners were notified that a guy would be cleaning their screens, mowing their lawn, or who is hand-lettering words on a grocery store’s front window. Turns out to be Todd’s test run because he was not sure he could trust Hoyt. The fake quarter million is nothing more than authentic cut paper.

To raise the level of excitement, later an old Army buddy recognizes Hoyt in the nightclub and addresses him by his real name. Finally picking up on Hoyt’s persistent denial and knowing his government position, he apologizes, and Hoyt thinks he survived a close call. Except Payton overheard the conversation. She and Bridges then find the microphone in her apartment. Livid Bridges wants the real twenty-five grand as payback for being double-crossed. Hoyt gets the money from the bank, but on route to the spurious hotel, meeting with Todd, Bridges tells him, at gunpoint, to keep driving. They turn off the highway onto an ocean-side cliff. Both cautiously exit the car, then Hoyt kicks the gun from Bridges’ hand, and their stunt doubles take over. Bridges loses the fight, gets booked, and is jailed. Oddly, it is the last time we see the leading man, yet twenty minutes of film remain. All we know for sure is, that no early release is indicated on the warden’s Mobil Oil calendar.

The ending is fairly exciting as Hoyt decided to complete the exchange anyway based on bogus information provided to “Todd the Naive.” Hoyt is compromised again by Payton’s unexpected appearance at the gang’s warehouse. Less exciting is the commonplace chase of multiple agents pursuing Todd between streetcars in a maintenance garage. It is the typical scenario with bullets bouncing off a lot of metal. Todd climbs to the roof of one streetcar but uses its overhead electrified cable to balance himself. The good news, he will not serve any jail time. “What's that smell?”

Note: The only humorous dialogue could get overlooked because of its subtlety. When Bridges is booked at another precinct, Hoyt tells the policeman to keep it secret and book him with a different name. The officer suggests, “How about Briggs? It’s my mother-in-law’s name. I just want to see what it looks like on a police blotter.”

FOLLOW ME QUIETLY (1949)

GULLIBILITY OF A DUMMY

This RKO Pictures semi-documentary noir, directed by Richard Fleischer, is a tidy sixty minutes' worth of crime-solving with a couple of questionable twists. Fellow director, Anthony Mann, shared story credit with Francis Rosenwald. Lillie Hayward provided the screenplay, which, in a couple of scenes, packs an emotional punch. There is hardly a dull moment thanks to the pacing. I find no fault with the well-cast lineup of actors or the wonderful moods set by the shadowy cinematography. The story centers around a serial killer, known only as "The Judge," and his stereotypical messages of individually clipped letters pasted on an otherwise blank sheet of paper. He is also an avid reader. He is both judge and jury as to who is evil, murdering them whenever it rains after the sun's setting. Alas, there would be fewer murders if he lived in Tucson.

A police Lieutenant, handsome William Lundigan, is assigned to track down the killer with the help of his partner, the less handsome Jeff Corey. In the mix is a persistent young reporter, Dorothy Patrick, who works for a tabloid magazine with a sensationalistic reputation. Lundigan is not a fan. Patrick, at times, a facial mix of the more famous Ginger Rogers, Priscilla Lane, and Eve Arden, is pressing him for a scoop on the killings, much to his annoyance.

The most implausible element in the film starts with a detailed, full-body sketch to identify the killer by his suit. Finally, some real progress. The film breaks with police routine—and reason—when Lundigan goes to great lengths to create a faceless manikin based on the sketch, blowing the police department's entire Christmas budget. Lundigan then has the manikin face the wall in their lineup—its back facing the policemen—as Corey bizarrely questions it with the dummy’s “answers” prerecorded, based on clues obtained about the killer to that point. The forty-five-second presentation is a real eye-opener. Somehow. Suspects are rounded up based on rear views and placed beside the manikin. Lundigan becomes the judge as to whether or not a suspect might be the killer. The department is only missing a face to go with the suit.

Wait. This is the most implausible element in the film. The blank-faced manikin's photograph is distributed to neighborhood bookstores—on Patrick's advice—in the hope that the manikin might be recognized as a recent customer. Understandably, the face is rather vague, but one shop owner says this customer wore glasses. Lundigan draws round eyeglass frames on the blank face. Nailed it. This narrows their search to any male approached from behind of average height with round-framed glasses.

Wait. Wait. Lest I forget an earlier scene. Alone in his unlit, dark office, Lundigan audibly questions the seated dummy from behind, trying to work through his toughest case, mentally. It is raining as the camera zooms in on his face, suggesting he is at a breaking point. In walks Corey, telling him to ease up. 'If you want to talk to a dummy, talk to me.' After both detectives leave the office, the “dummy” pivots, then rises, still faceless to the audience, pushing the gullibility envelope in a preposterously risky move by “The Judge.” Obviously, he is not a heavy breather or wearing smoke-infused clothing. A slick scene with a believability factor at absolute zero.

Lundigan and Corey stake out the murderer’s apartment building from an empty room. When we first see the face of the serial killer, Edwin Max, he cautiously approaches the building. This skittish guy does not fit the profile of one who would mockingly toy with Lundigan in his office. With the neighborhood eerily vacant and silent, he dashes off with both detectives in pursuit. The climax is a foot chase in an oil refinery among giant pipes, catwalks, and stairways to clichėd heights. Leonid Raab’s score cranks up to a crescendo as the police arrive and take aim at Max with a machine gun, bursting water pipes left and right. Totally spent from running and with no place to go, Max is cornered by Lundigan. He puts one end of the handcuffs on the killer, but fails to attach the other end to himself. The following scene would not work if he had. He instructs him, 'Follow me, quietly.' When Max attempts to walk under the leaking pipes, however, the pouring water sends him into a violent rage, and he viciously tries to escape, compromising Lundigan’s grip on the handcuffs. The police chalk up Max's fall—and his body outline—to water torture.