CHINATOWN AT MIDNIGHT (1949)

Hurd Hatfield 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 items from a discount store and reselling them on eBay 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.

A lieutenant investigates Hatfield’s apartment and discovers his record collection. Among them is a Chinese language tutorial and the Top 10 hit, “I Think I’m Turning Chinese.” A unique 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 anyone with possible contact with him. The switchboard operator taking that earlier robbery call recognizes Hatfield’s voice. 

Hatfield, now 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. At a nearby drug store he seeks a new prescription but the pharmacist, Byron Foulger, says 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. “Dr. Hatfield,” says his patient was just in to fill his prescription. Testing its credulity, the script never justifies the quickness of Hatfield calling a doctor or how suspiciously quick he returns for the medicine. Foulger is completely oblivious.

Now knowing of his medical condition, the police figure 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, Hatfield exits in a panic for another Hollywood rooftop chase routine, done the same since the previous decade began. The police provide a permanent remedy for malaria.

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. A couple of real head-scratchers by the time it is all over—the pharmacy scene being one. Hurd Hatfield, perhaps best known to television viewers, is good at playing arrogant, devious or diabolical characters. His captivating performance keeps this formulaic Columbia Pictures’ boredom at bay. Jean Willes, who would become a television staple, has an early credited role—insignificant in the grand scheme.

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.