EXPOSED (1947)

This film attests to the low-budget efforts of director George Blair for Republic Pictures. Royal Cole and Charles Moran wrote the tedious, confusing screenplay with an innocuous score by the future’s more important Ernest Gold. There is little need to share details about the plot that concerns an heir to the family fortune, a deceased wealthy businessman, and—no one anticipated this—a possible cure for alcoholism. Drinking in moderation was just too obvious. This routine fifty-nine-minute film involves several intertwined characters, where an extra ten minutes might have helped clarify them better. The deflated ending makes a stab at doing so. Still, one may need to rewind. The film might give the sense that this is just one in a string of entries about a father-daughter crime team. Except this film was one and done.

The spirited twenty-three-year-old Adele Mara brightens up the screen and is about the only reason to make the film. The captivating opening is a good start. She appears to be in jeopardy right from the start while seated in her favorite restaurant. Bob “Chicago” Steele approaches her table, removes his hat, and sits down. Not in the least bit intimidated, she coolly asks him to take his hat off the table because she is allergic to dandruff. The hat hides a gun. He escorts her from the restaurant only to be met by the extra-large William Haade, Mara’s bodyguard. The duo shuts down Steele’s plan, and they motor off. The self-confident beauty is a sassy private investigator in a man’s world. The early scenes establish her character as a savvy woman in total control of all things crime. There are humorous quips written for Mara.

You have seen these father-daughter battles before. Robert Armstrong tries to rein in his daughter for her own safety and lack of experience handling danger. She thinks Dad is old-fashioned. Still, they provide the only energy in this film, as faint as it is. Well, there is a rousing, choreographed fistfight between tall Haade and short Steele of Western stunt fame. Ironically, the distant shots use stunt doubles. Mara is an adept pickpocket as well. While hugging dear old dad, she lifts his badge from the side pocket of his suit, which gives her access to places off-limits to ordinary citizens. Armstrong castigates her for impersonating an officer, with serious jail time being a possible outcome. Recognizing it is his own badge, he hits the proverbial ceiling. Yet the two pool their resources and round up the rest of the cast like so many Agatha Christie films. Everyone gathers—minus the deceased—in one room for the finalé and to expose each one’s motive during the mystery.

Note: Adele Mara, born Adelaide Delgado, churned out film after forgettable film in the Forties. In a Hollywood full of petite, pretty blondes cast in low-budget films, Mara’s career simply ran out of steam. She turned to television in the mid-fifties. She is the older sister of television’s Luis Delgado, a regular on The Rockford Files and Garner’s on-set personal aide for many years. Fortuitously, Mara would marry Roy Huggins in 1952, the man responsible for the Rockford character. 

LADY GANGSTER (1942)

I do not know the odds of this happening but the premise of the film has an aspiring actress getting involved with bank robbers at the suggestion of an elderly woman friend with poor character judgment. Expect routine double-crosses, prison gossip, misunderstandings, a climactic car chase, and that distinct, muffled-in-a-box Warner Bros. gunfire. The film was directed by Robert Florey, aka Florian Roberts. Not much new that had not been seen before since the mid-1930s. There is adequate cinematography and music score, and at sixty-two minutes, it rolls by quickly with one’s attention kept intact by the cast’s fine performances. Script credulity, however, is challenged on more than one occasion.

Faye Emerson possessed a photographic flair with expressive eyes. Apparently, not enough to get noticed on B-movie lots. Garnering the moniker of “gangster” is a stretch, yet the film wastes no time launching as Emerson, very lady-like and with an irresistible small terrier in her arms, cons her way into a bank before opening hours. The dog is simply a prop, thrust on her by one of her partners in crime. The gang comes through the bank’s unsecured doors. After all the excitement, she plays it cool with seemingly all the right answers, except that the name she gives the dog does not match the name on the dog tag. She is taken into custody. The DA suspects she is guilty, but with no evidence to convict her, she is released.

Affecting the script’s weaknesses is radio news announcer Frank Wilcox and his long-standing disgust for the “crooked” DA. He surmises he is railroading the lady for political gain. There is no character development or evidence to substantiate this. Fed up with Wilcox’s accusatory broadcasts, the DA wants him to question her. This pseudo-subplot lacks any real substance because the battle between the two men is suddenly dispensed with and never addressed again. It is the script’s device to simply reunite school sweethearts, Wilcox and Emerson. Thinking of the girl he once knew, Wilcox cannot believe she is guilty and vouches for her. Not taking the whole robbery thing too seriously, she wrongly thinks it will not change their relationship if she confesses. He cannot abide by her sudden honesty. Bygones are not bygones. Her deception qualifies her for up to ten years of free room and board. A prison where security and visitation standards are very lax.

Emerson is befriended by one inmate who admires her spunk—she is not ‘all sawdust inside.’ Another inmate knows the pulse of the prison by reading lips, whether from a front or side view. As played by Dorothy Adams, “Deaf Annie” is, however, able to talk, and her wide-eyed craziness and an unearthly command of lip-reading help elevate the prison segment. An annoying performance by Ruth Ford will be remembered as the prison snitch. How she has stayed alive during her tenure is a wonder. But neither can hold a candle to the gang leader, Roland Drew, who visits Emerson as "all-woman" in full makeup. Some pretty sharp prison guards. The whereabouts of the bank’s forty grand are “Madame Drew’s” only interest. He did have the presence of mind to shave off his mustache. Strangely, she is not a bit surprised by his transformation and recognizes him immediately. 

Nearing her early release from prison, she gets duped by the lying snitch about Wilcox’s intentions for her. After learning the truth, Emerson casually escapes prison to prevent his demise at the hands of the gang. She feels pretty bad about this since it was her idea. There is an attempt by the robbers to grab the leather bag full of money, which subsequently involves a three-on-one fistfight with Wilcox. It is a fairly exciting, choreographed climax and only worth mentioning for the “shoddy home construction” in Vera “Ma” Lewis’ apartment house. The entire stairway railing breaks away as if each post is secured by a single thumbtack. The loot gets recovered and returned, with script credibility once again challenged by a final contrived hospital scene with Wilcox and Emerson.

Notes: Perhaps this film’s most noteworthy details, in hindsight, are the coming together of four future television personalities. A couple of them, working together in the medium. After a decade-long film career in films like this one, Emerson became more famous by getting in on the early days of television as the first lady to host a talk and variety series, all fifteen minutes worth, called “The Faye Emerson Show.” This led to “Faye Emerson's Wonderful Town.” She also became a regular panelist on the original "I've Got a Secret" show.

Frank Wilcox had about a ten-year jump in films over Emerson. This would explain their unlikely connection in school. He co-starred in many notable films of the 1940s, going on to become a familiar face to television audiences during the 1960s and beyond with roles on many popular series, including a recurring role on "The Beverly Hillbillies."

This film was an early visible role for William Hopper, playing Wilcox’s assistant. He struggled through many uncredited roles for two decades, four films of which were with Errol Flynn. Hopper and Wilcox started their careers about the same year, with the former ending his career in the iconic role of Paul Drake from the "Perry Mason" series. In several episodes, Wilcox played a judge.

Finally, John Herbert “Jackie” Gleason, for unknown reasons, used the letter “C’ to start his hit-and-miss film career. Perhaps thinking “Jackie C” would catch on as he tried to find his niche in Hollywood. The young Gleason, with a balloon-smooth face, plays the wheelman for the robber’s car. He gained fame on the golf course, with his own orchestra, and from a groundbreaking television sitcom, "The Honeymooners."

CHINATOWN AT MIDNIGHT (1949)

Hurd Hatfield's character is a thief in San Francisco's Chinatown with murder as a resumé enhancer. His current partner in crime is an unethical interior decorator who employs him to steal artifacts she has her eye on, selling each for profit, somewhat like buying multiple sale items from a local store and reselling them on Amazon at a markup. They have been through this many times, and his cool, aloof demeanor assumes she had better not ever cross him. In pursuit of her next possession, he kindly asks one shop attendant to wrap it. For his own anonymity, he coldly shoots and kills both store workers. And he is just getting started. Using his best Chinese, he calls the police about the robbery, going through a central switchboard operator for the connection. A major oversight. But he becomes even less clever as the film progresses. He ditches his overcoat in a trash bin to throw off the police search. The coat is tracked to where it was last cleaned, and before long, they have Hatfield on the run.

Sam Katzman produced this sixty-seven-minute noir with the era’s oft-used voice-over narration to keep the viewer abreast of the story as it unfolds over twenty midnights—as if ripped from the headlines. There is no lack of suspense or intrigue, but the implausibilities start to stack up. Hatfield is perhaps best known to television viewers for playing arrogant, devious, or diabolical characters. His captivating performance keeps this formulaic Columbia Pictures boredom at bay. Jean Willes, who would become a blonde television and B-movie staple, has an early credited role—insignificant in the grand scheme.

A lieutenant investigates Hatfield’s apartment and discovers his unique record collection. Among them is a Chinese language tutorial and the Top 20 hit, "I Think I’m Turning China-ese." A clever element in the film is the use of a wire recorder to press additional records of Hatfield’s practice sessions. A big stack of records is distributed to those who might have had contact with him. The switchboard operator taking that earlier robbery call recognizes Hatfield’s voice. 

Hatfield, complete with a Western Union-type uniform, poses as a bicycling telegram deliverer with a wire for one resident, his landlady. The police officer stationed outside the apartment unknowingly lets him pass. To keep her from phoning the police, he muzzles and ties her up, grabs a few items, including his prescription, then pedals off with a smirk. He stops to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. Out pops the prescription bottle for malaria, but he does not hear the thick glass bottle hit the pavement, even though the sound department makes it quite clear. He seeks a new prescription at a drug store, where the pharmacist, Byron Foulger, states it must be authorized by a physician. Hatfield immediately calls from the phone booth inside the pharmacy, picks a doctor at random, and calls Foulger a few feet away. “Doctor Hatfield” says his patient was just in to fill his prescription. Testing the script's credibility, it cannot justify the quickness of Hatfield calling a doctor other than from inside the drug store, or how he suspiciously returns so quickly. Foulger is completely oblivious, capping the implausibility of it all.

Now knowing of his medical condition, the police figure out how far a guy like Hatfield could walk with malaria, assuming he does not use a taxi. It narrows their search area to another apartment complex. A savvy undercover policewoman poses as a census taker. Hatfield provides phony information. For all his assumed smarts, pretty dumb to even answer the door. He is suspicious, of course, and watches her pause by a phone in the hallway. But she covers her exit by knocking on one of the apartments she nearly “forgot” about. With the police surrounding his apartment, they provide a permanent remedy for malaria.

Note: Amid the seriousness of the investigation, a bit of levity lightens the mood throughout the film. The police captain, played seriously by Tom Powers, keeps sending the lieutenant mentioned above out on the case. The hapless lieutenant also keeps reminding Powers he has time off coming and expects to use this time once his assignment is completed. But Powers repeatedly ignores his pleas and sends him out about three or four more times. Indeed, a final humorous exchange ends the film as Powers tells the lieutenant he can now take that vacation...unless he needs him for something important.

THE BROTHERS RICO (1957)

This well-acted American crime film noir was directed by Phil Karlson, who stepped away from another John Payne project to helm this fine one. The ninety-two-minute film was produced by William Goetz and distributed by Columbia Pictures. It is all accompanied by a solid, if not unique, music score by George Duning. Cinematographer Burnett Guffey creates some dramatic visual effects. Karlson's trademark realism of location shooting places the viewer in the action. For the transportation historian, it is an eyeful.

Richard Conte plays the eldest of two younger brothers, Paul Picerni and James Darren. Without flaw, Conte excels again in a role in which he is well acquainted as a guy caught in the middle of a serious life dilemma. An “Italian moment” between Conte, his mother, and his grandmother is loaded with authenticity. In the old days, he was an accountant for the syndicate but has used his financial expertise to become the owner of a legit and prosperous laundry company. No one launders money there. Picerni's monetary greed will have him outfitted with the latest in concrete footwear by the mob if caught. He confesses to a shocked Conte his responsibility for a recent hit. Baby brother Darren was the driver. Added to the turmoil is Conte's wife, played by Dianne Foster. Their opening scenes can be an uncomfortable ten minutes, as if watching through a hidden camera. In a later scene together, she is unreasonably irate because Conte suddenly must catch a flight to Miami for a face-to-face with the syndicate boss, Larry Gates. The couple was supposed to sign adoption papers instead.

Gates has been somewhat of an uncle to Conte. The cordial Gates hides his ability to turn up the heat if double-crossed. This becomes painfully obvious to Picerni in the adjoining room. Hitman, William Phipps, is giving him a serious “Martinizing.” Gates strongly suggests Conte find his missing little brother as the bulk of the film takes flight to New York, Phoenix, and El Camino, California. Everywhere he goes, guys in fedoras are there before his arrival. Darren and his expectant wife, Katherine Grant, are not universally thrilled with Conte's surprise appearance, assuming he has been tracked. Darren does a good job. His final scenes are first-rate as it quickly becomes apparent Conte was not actually the first to discover his whereabouts.

Conte is alone in thinking “Uncle Larry” is sincere. Even “Mama Rico” no longer trusts him. Ending up back in Miami, the lone Rico has learned the truth about Gates, and their final confrontation is an exciting, life-altering experience for the latter. Conte testifies against the syndicate, successfully shutting it down in one of the most rapid film closings of the decade. A letter from the DA vouches for him, assuring the Ricos a successful adoption from the Bayshore Children's Home. Conte will have more dirty laundry to clean.

Notes: In addition to William Phipps, there are other genuine performances by the “theatrical mob members” Harry Bellaver, local crime boss, and Rudy Bond as Bellaver's “secretary” henchman. Cast as another underworld informant is Richard Bakalyan, with two brief appearances. Both Dianne Foster and Katherine Grant have little to do in the film, yet both are second and third billed, respectively. 

FILM BRAKE: SECURITY INVESTIGATOR

DANGER MAN (1960-61)

This original adventure series centered on the exploits of an internationally famous security investigator whose services are only available to governments or their high-ranking officials. The Danger Man strove for realism, dramatizing credible Cold War tensions. Beyond the fast pace, some inventive plots, and exotic locales, the gravitating force of the series was undoubtedly the American television debut of Patrick McGoohan. With his distinct, clipped delivery, intensity, charm, coolness, and physicality, he makes this series quite compelling in spite of some scripts that are less so. McGoohan's British stage acting abilities could be quite intimidating to fellow actors, not unlike John Drake's pointed truths to convince someone about saving their life or country. The series did not feature silly gadgets of secret agents yet to come. Rather, Drake utilizes his intelligence and quick thinking. If he used any spycraft tools, they were generally credible. The family-oriented McGoohan preferred that Drake carry no firearms. In one episode he confesses, 'I never carry a gun. They're noisy, and they hurt people. Besides, I manage very well without.' He knows how to fire one, though—a gun knocked free from a combatant's hand might provide him leverage. His final demand for the role was no outright seduction of female co-stars. Drake is focused on the business at hand. The punctuated jazz score by Edwin Astley provides another dimension of coolness and would often burst into a scene, half debilitating the dialogue. Expect a Drake-ism once granted a favor or request—the gracious—“I'm obliged.”

After the opening scene teaser, McGoohan provides a voice-over as he leaves a building in Washington, DC, before speeding away in his convertible British sports car:

“Every government has its secret service branch. America, CIA; France, Deuxième Bureau; England, MI5. (The line, "NATO also has its own" is not always used.) A messy job? Well, that's when they usually call on me or someone like me. Oh yes, my name is Drake, John Drake.”

McGoohan never appears to use a stunt double during choreographed fistfights. This is an endearing quality of the thirty-two-year-old Irish-American, proving he is all about credibility. Assuming no visual miscues by me, he is clearly seen as the guy doing the flipping of an assailant in judo fashion, getting knocked across a room. Throwing the most violent, unimaginable haymakers and uppercuts do tend to send the Drake character to near science-fiction level. He might use a fake identity to infiltrate a Communist regime in Africa, Central America, or a small European country. He is not infallible, and assignments do not always go as anticipated.

The show did not set CBS on fire—not all of the thirty-nine episodes were above average. Some scripts can be rather complex, with a myriad of characters, hopping from one country to the next or trying to take in all of McGoohan's rapidly delivered dialogue. The humor is restrained—a flippant hero has no place in this series. A few episodes make one wish there was a bit more, however, as McGoohan could deliver some dandy dry sarcasm. One would like to double the number of episodes with his five-time costar—the ever-so-British—Richard Wattis, as the bespectacled Mr. Hardy, an intelligence agent requesting [demanding] Drake's services. Though there is no real animosity between them, they initially conflict when discussing an assignment. Their sarcastic banter is a needed delight.

The idea for the Danger Man series originated with Ralph Smart, an associate of Lew Grade, head of ITC Entertainment. It is filmed at MGM British Studios, England, UK, and in foreign locations. The series aired in America as a late-spring replacement for the departing Wanted Dead or Alive. American financing for a second season failed to materialize, but the show continued in the UK as the hour-long second and third seasons. After a three-year Drake disappearance, the show returned to America as Secret Agent, along with a new guitar-led theme performed by Johnny Rivers.