THE BEATNIKS (1960)

Against a rudimentary jazzy score, this seventy-seven-minute film opens as the viewer follows a custom-lowered 1949-50 Ford sedan motoring through city streets. As it pulls into a local market—an habitual robbery destination—the grille has magically morphed into a custom design, removing Ford’s iconic "bullet" grille. The Ford gets its original grille back after leaving the market. It is the first concrete evidence of a strangulated budget. The occupants install their creatively demented paper masks and demand as much cash—this week—as they can. They hop back into the car as their female get-away driver peels out in the path of a Trailways bus. Cool. An electric guitar lead cranks up the intensity as the unrecognizable production company, Glenville Productions, and an equally unknown list of actors are displayed. There were worse low-budget films during the era but this is a good illustration of what can happen. This film would seem to give kooky beatniks a bad rap, man. You dig? Not one beret or goatee, either. The film did have a different working title but “The Miscreants” would have better defined it.

These Hollywood hoodlums are on the edge of oblivion, and if we tracked them over the next decade a few might make my point. Though tame by today's low standards, this group of reprobates represents an era when it was cool to be bad. They have no respect for property or person as they flaunt their rebellion. On a typical day of irresponsible behavior, the social misfits pull into a diner but an old fart’s car is in their way. The car has stalled so they offer to push it out of the way. The getaway driver, the second-billed Karen Kadler as Iris, backs up a few feet then floors it, crashing the two cars together for their big laugh.

Making an early impression is television’s Peter “Big Valley” Breck, as the punk who finds himself to be the funniest of the gang. In reality, he is the scariest of the five as he appears to be high on something. But it is not life. "Nuts" is how gang leader, Tony Travis, appropriately describes him. His disturbing, high-register ratta-tat-tat laugh and cranked head during verbal confrontations define him. He is the actor you will remember the most, similar to Vic Morrow in “The Blackboard Jungle” fame. His over-the-top performance is the single element making this film infamous and a subject to ridicule. The advertising department understood this as Breck is front and center on the poster.

By pure happenstance, the middle-aged fart is a music business executive. With everyone inside the eatery, the clinging Iris coaxes Travis into singing with a jukebox tune, the film's original title, “Sideburns Don't Need Your Sympathy.” A pretty far-out concept, man! The executive overhears the fabulous “Fabian-like” voice and the “youngster” is invited to audition on a popular television show. The telephone circuits are nearly fried during and after his performance. A record contract is in order. As the “Our Gang” kids might do, the remaining four show up uninvited at the studio mainly to poke equipment and generally make fun of more stuff they do not understand. Travis never thought about being a singer yet he miraculously sight reads the charts flawlessly. Literally overnight, he becomes a sensation singing dreamy love songs. Crazy, man! His rise to stardom creates dissension among the remaining untalented foursome as they see his future better defined as a life gang leader. Breck does make his only sensible comment telling Travis if the music producers knew his recent past, man, they would drop him like a rock. Dig, Daddy-o?

One would hate to be a retail owner if these five ever showed themselves. Breck teases a diner owner before killing him for kicks, later stating he did it to bring “Mr. Fancy Pants” back down to gang level. Guilt by association is Travis’ life plan. The police want Breck but do not know the gang leader. Travis wants to end his charade and asks Joyce Terry, the executive's secretary and his love interest, to call the police and reveal his identity. Terry also shared writing credit for this story. Giving a new meaning to the beat generation, the crazed Breck assaults the music executive within an inch of his life then wanders the night streets as a self-confirmed big shot, ending up outside the recording studio where he and Travis have a final altercation. The police arrive with two sets of handcuffs—the gang permanently dissolved. Kadler becomes the first female driver on the demolition derby circuit. Travis becomes the featured soloist for the prison choir and Breck spends his years staring at four padded walls. Jailhouses rock, man!

Note: Though filming wrapped in 1958, the death of its producer delayed its release for another two years. The busy actor and distinct voice-over artist, Paul Frees, wrote and directed this “time-sensitive exposé” as well as providing songs with co-writer, Eddie Brandt, and a bit of voice-over dialogue to boot. Backed by music director, Stanley Wilson, then a driving force in Hollywood’s music industry, the music may be the most notable element of the film. Frees learned his lesson and decided to end his directing aspirations after this debacle. In real life, Tony Travis released a few recordings under the RCA label. He had a mellow, lounge singer style. Totally ubiquitous. Not a fan of the authentic beat generation.

SHOOT TO KILL (1947)

Produced and Directed by William Berke with a screenplay by Edwin Westrate, this routine sixty-four-minute, fast-paced crime noir does have an ending that is anything but routine. The alternate title, “Police Reporter,” best defines the film, however. It was produced for Robert L. Lippert Productions and distributed by Screen Guild Productions. The whiplashing script—thank the numerous flashbacks—begins at the end of the movie with a cliff-side car crash that sends a female to the hospital. The myriad of flashbacks can make it a complicated affair with the viewer feeling they may have “parachuted in.” Character development is nearly nonexistent for these unknown actors. Past the halfway point the action finally kicks in but the contrived twist at the end is borderline science fiction.

A common practice of the era to condense a film was to have select scenes replaced by the next sequence sliding across the screen or superimposed over another. An example is the whirlwind courtroom scene—dialogue edited down to essentials—to simply introduce local gangster, Robert Kent, accused of a murder he did not commit. The assistant district attorney (ADA) railroaded him and Kent (below left) vows revenge even if it takes the full twenty-year sentence. One can imagine a number of things that could change in that time span. Besides, a twenty-year “flash-forward” would not be tolerated by the audience.

Russell Wade, in his next to last film, plays a crack newspaper reporter also trying to figure out what the characters are doing in this movie. Without the flashbacks, he might never find his purpose in the film. The script makes it a point to mention he has the ability to read—newspapers—upside down to subtly gain information. He is very polite with a laid-back, yet upbeat personality with the pulse of the city in his hip pocket. The script fails to mention his flat dialogue delivery. Still in flashback mode outside the office of that ADA, Edmund MacDonald, Wade bumps into Luan Walters for their initial encounter. They become a fixture at many popular nightspots as their relationship blossoms. I expected a marriage proposal from Wade at any second. With his introduction to MacDonald—someone Wade has no pulse on—Walters becomes his secretary, just as Wade predicted. What he could not predict was MacDonald replacing him at said nightspots.

The mustachioed MacDonald—a face combining a young Orson Welles and Robert Preston—is tied in with mobster, Nestor Paiva (above right in hat), who runs his career. Paiva senses Walters is not trustworthy and demands he, now in what is called a quandary, fire her. He attempts to write a letter dismissing her services but has an epiphany instead. Walters is asked to transcribe a verbal message which—even in shorthand—becomes his clever marriage proposal. A wife cannot testify against her husband. She surmises his underhanded charade and we begin to sense she is a driving force to be reckoned with. At this point, one realizes top-billed Wade has disappeared from the film, and after only six months in the slammer, Kent escapes prison.

About the forty-minute point, the film offers its first real action. Wade returns to the screen to track Kent and convince him that the confessions of two witnesses can clear him of the murder conviction. Kent is not convinced. While exiting a darkened stairway, an intense fistfight breaks out between the two—stuntmen—with Kent escaping. It is quite an impressive action sequence for any era, sped up for your enjoyment. Another flashback—make that two—takes the viewer back to the hospital where Walters, still suffering from "multi-flashback syndrome," wraps up her revealing story to Wade. The most memorable segment—the science fiction part—is the double-crossing twist upon twist ending. The “clergyman” who performed the MacDonald-Walters “wedding ceremony” sends believability off the charts when he reappears. We are finally back to the beginning but the movie has reached the end of its reel of celluloid.

Note: One will always know when something dramatic is about to happen as the music score by Darrell Calker crescendos to a fever pitch. An amusing example is after the ADA's office is bugged by a very nervous janitor under the fist of Pavia. A lot of film frames were eaten up for the janitor's scenes, though his screen presence is short-lived by an involuntary free-fall down an elevator shaft. MacDonald notices a wire under his office bookshelf. What the?! He starts pulling on it uprooting one floor rug after the other, before moving into the adjoining room, moving file cabinets, chairs and generally destroying the office before moving into a closet as the music gets louder and the tempo increases.

STREET OF CHANCE (1942)

This early film noir was directed by Jack Hively and it established a number of noir elements that would be used throughout the next decade and beyond. There are moments of excellent cinematography work by Theodor Sparkuhl as his camera may pan out to see where the action is going or for scene transitions. The closing scene, in particular, with an elevated camera, is cleverly handled. The seventy-four-minute film was produced by Sol C. Siegel for Paramount Pictures and generally received good reviews.

Burgess Meredith stars as a man who suffered amnesia nearly a year before the film begins. Not knowing who he was, he assumed a fictitious person. A subsequent blow to his head opens this film which actually eliminates that fictitious character. Yet it creates a second dose of amnesia. Somewhat humorously, and a departure from the typical amnesia gimmick, Meredith now has amnesia about his previous year with amnesia. He is left to figure out who he used to be and why he is being aggressively pursued by men in felt hats. His inner thoughts are periodically inserted as voice-overs. Though Sheldon Leonard is an all-business detective this time around, the audience nor Meredith are sure at first, given Leonard’s trademark delivery, if he is a gangster or not. All Meredith knows is Leonard’s bullets are a bit too close.

Meredith reunites with his wife after their lost year apart. Both are unclear where he has been since “going out for a quart of milk.” With not a single question about his supposed “nervous breakdown,” his former employer hires him back. It takes a couple of days, but Meredith pieces together his old life, taking a chance back on the street where he thinks his troubles started. Second-billed Claire Trevor recognizes him from the old neighborhood and provides shelter from Leonard—who suspects him of the murder of a wealthy family member whom Trevor has been a servant. She does not realize she fell in love with the guy that no longer exists. She is puzzled by his searching questions. They arrive at the mansion where he meets the family’s invalid, elderly matriarch, who was an eyewitness to the murder. Oddly, Meredith realizes she is also mute after glancing over at her wheelchair. Or so it appears. Through a form of sign language, blinking her eyes once for yes, twice for no, Meredith discovers who committed the murder.

During the final scene, Leonard is on the premises and hears the murderer’s confession. There is a struggle with a handgun and it fires in the unintended direction—one of Hollywood’s most used devices—killing the murderer. The overhead camera boom then ascends up from the mansion’s living room seemingly bursting through the roof in the process. The camera moves with Leonard walking through the movie set and exiting the front door as the boom returns to a ground-level perspective. He lights a cigarette and moves off-screen as a distant “smoker's cough” echoes through the night. Pure speculation about that last bit.

Note: There are a couple of contrived stagings when Leonard pursues Meredith. First is when the two men pass each other on opposite sides of a hand-carried protest sign, obscuring their view of each other. On the heels of this scene, Leonard ducks into a barbershop but does not recognize Meredith behind an avalanche of shave cream.

SLIGHTLY SCARLET (1956)

This soap opera slash crime film is loosely based on James Cain's novel “Love's Lovely Counterfeit,” a title the film should have kept for this ninety-nine-minute film. The film falls into the B-movie noir category with few arguments. It was produced by Benedict Bogeaus, distributed by RKO Radio Pictures and directed by Allan Dwan. The occasionally implausible screenplay is by Robert Blees. There are notable actors in this one and they probably ate up most of the budget. However, its widescreen “Superscope” cinematography by John Alton is the highlight. Interiors are lavishly detailed and colorful. The mobster’s mansion would seem to have experienced a power outage as the only lighting appears to come from the props to highlight a specific interior detail or an actor’s face. The resulting shadows are foreboding, befitting the sinister surroundings. In contrast, the mob boss’s open concept beach house is a modern-designed gem.

You will be familiar with John Payne’s role as a tough guy with a dark side. But those gray crime dramas never had the musically talented actor playing the piano, however briefly, as he does here. Payne always improves a film and his character's intensity is not lessened by color. Adding a ruthless quotient is his boss, the quintessential gangster, Ted de Corsia. Payne is his “public relations” man whom he sarcastically calls, “Genius.” Payne works both sides of the law yet he is tired of his powerless position under the boss’s thumb. In a double-cross, he sets him up as front-page news for a recent murder. Thought to be untouchable, de Corsia angrily buys a one-way airline ticket to Mexico, leaving Payne to take over operations, his beach house and his Chrysler. Mayoral candidate, Kent Taylor, had come down hard on de Corsia’s manhandling of city officials. Payne’s own manipulation secures the unsuspecting Taylor of an election victory.

What better excuse to use “Superscope” than to feature two Technicolor scarlet starlets, Rhonda “sultry” Fleming and Arlene “klepto” Dahl. Neither could be considered acting powerhouses and their screen time together is a suds-fest. Not entirely their fault. Fleming seems to treat her little sister like a high school graduate though only two years separated them in real life. Fleming comes off okay and her limited alto vocal range is not as shallow as in some of her other supporting roles. Fleming is Kent's secretary and girlfriend but Payne temporarily disrupts their future as he and Fleming become attached at the lips on more than one occasion. Give Dahl credit for being a convincing obnoxious adult brat. Naturally, like the average female, they sleep in full makeup and a permanent...permanent.

The film’s opening concerns Dahl's prison release for petty theft. Her lack of awareness, smart-aleck attitude and the fawning over any male assumes she is irresistible. To get an idea of her unconsciousness, later in the film she picks up a speargun at the beach house and pulls the trigger to see what might happen. The spear barely misses Payne’s head, embedding itself in the wall. She thought it funny. He angrily grabs her by the shoulders, whip-lashing her fore and aft, scarlet tresses bobbing every which way, with her enduring airhead smile intact. Payne’s bending the law to suit his personal desires never grows old as he continues to intervene after Dahl is arrested for stealing a necklace. But kleptomania is not her only underlying problem.

News of Payne’s dominance reaches de Corsia and he returns to the beach house for revenge. Dahl is the lone occupant until Fleming arrives. The mob boss knows all about her. She is on his Christmas death list. Drunken Dahl is flippant about the whole standoff. Fleming stumbles onto another loaded speargun on the deck. Spearing tuna from cliff-side is apparently the norm. The mobster gets speared in the shoulder then she shoots him twice with his dropped gun. Dahl is one actress very aware that cameras are rolling. Her instant attitude change is so over-the-top as if the director may have told her, “On the count of three, you scream hysterically, okay? You'll need to do it twice.”

The beach house lighting during the closing is an aesthetic and graphically superior element. The wide, shallow stairway creates horizontal dashes of contrast juxtaposed to the square, dark walls and angular ceiling shadows. Payne and the scarlet duo are in an adjoining room when de Corsia manages to call him out. Payne faces de Corsia one last time and growls out several cutting insults before being perforated. Fleming’s future is in doubt, leaving her to speculate whether she can continue as the mayor’s secretary since he has fallen in love with Dahl's mental health. I would not be surprised that the rumors surrounding the mayor's future wife might affect his re-election bid.

Above: After Payne takes over the mob from de Corsia, he also takes over his car, that Chrysler with no windshield. Standard on the Imperial, the mob boss never realized it was an option on the New Yorker. I suspect there were plans to film from the hood or the footage ended up on the cutting room floor. Even funnier is when Payne picks up his old beater at the parking garage where the Chrysler has been cleaned and polished. The young attendant admires the car, being especially proud of the streak-free windshield. The kid asks if he can borrow the Chrysler for a hot date. Imagine her reaction as her false eyelashes end up in the back seat. The lad starts the car and we hear an explosion. What we see is smoke gently rising from the dash and he instantly keels over on his right side in a less-than-convincing special effect. Apparently toxic gas.

HAIL, MAFIA (1965)

This low-budget, eighty-eight-minute film is indicative of mafia film "prototypes" leading up to the subject’s peak in The Godfather. It took no less than three production companies to put this in the can. I think the studio's janitor came up with the title. The film has a distinct “French-Italian” vibe with some dubbed dialogue to confirm it. The dominant element in the film is not acting. It is a period-specific jazz score that was apparently recorded in a parking garage. Without Hubert Rostaing’s score, however, this would be an extremely dull movie. Yet it almost intrudes some scenes as if there was an LP record playing in the same room you are watching television and you wish someone would turn it down a bit. Expect some abrupt film edits. One, in particular, has the camera jumping from a train to a city street to an arcade in a mere two seconds. Superimposed sporadically are titles to identify the location or the time of day. This film has been rightfully forgotten since its premiere. Discovering it in a new century does not make it a lost classic. For your approval, here are the main characters.

It is a rare occasion when two left-handed actors are in the same mafia film. Eddie Constantine, at the peak of European popularity, provides the cryptic opening voice-over narration describing his lot in life as the viewer watches him outwit an assassin in a Paris parking garage...er...recording studio. His single voice-over is rather meaningless, only acting as a device to introduce his persona. There are no additional voice-overs to help carry his character or the story along. Henry Silva found his niche in gangster films. His facial structure may give the impression of possible reconstructive surgery. Anyone familiar with him at this stage in his career knows he was essentially a supporting B-movie or television actor. Celebrating him in recent years does not make him one of the greats because he is still alive—as of this writing. Not to say he is uninteresting to watch. He and fellow mafia club member, the right-handed Jack Klugman, have never been on an “assassination run” before. Klugman was adept at displaying pessimistic or disgruntled characters. So he makes a believable hitman with a lot of angst. Silva tells him to relax and do what he tells him to do. Their road trip is a psychological study of how paid assassins' friendships can be so fleeting. Both are off to Paris to assassinate Constantine before he can testify against a mob boss indicted in America.

Minor characters are confusingly introduced, initially without a name. Elsa Martinelli has an insignificant role as a secretary or love assistant to Constantine. Micheline Presle is a French informer for Silva, who drives a 1965 Plymouth Fury through the streets of Paris. It becomes Silva’s loaner as he travels conspicuously “undercover” among Citroens and Volkswagens. Do not expect any action or suspense until the very end—which extends a bit too long. Expect a twist or two as the truth is revealed about Constantine.

Note: Providing a bit of detailed confusion is a poorly shot sequence as the duo head toward Constantine’s hideout. Silva pulls the “SS Plymouth” into a service station for petrol. As Silva walks to the pump Klugman gets out and informs him he will be right back. With seemingly no time elapsing, Silva gets behind the wheel and drives away. There is no definitive evidence that Klugman ever returned. What might be missed, in reality, is the slight bounce of the car as Klugman gets seated and his partial silhouette is visible in the passenger seat. This entire snippet takes about two seconds.